


The Red Tape of Fate

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Fashion & Couture, M/M, Rakshasa, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow Burn, absolutely fabulous - Freeform, all a bit silly really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters might have gotten more than they bargained for when Heaven requests their assistance in dealing with an archangel gone rogue.  Together with a Nyquil-snorting Castiel, they stumble into a world of brooding bureaucrats, vengeful pagan gods, and snotty fashionistas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up through Season 10. I disliked the episode, Hammer of the Gods, so I'm going to ignore most of it. And I'm also ignoring My Heart Will Go On from S7, since I didn’t really like S7 much. If you're looking for canon consistency, this ain't the place. Edina and Patsy are, of course, stolen from the Absolutely Fabulous universe. (You don't mind, do you, darlings?) And all the pagan gods are stolen from different world mythologies. Actually, there's hardly anything here that's mine. 
> 
> Also, no beta, though I did have my long-suffering friend read this through to make sure it at least had some coherence (thanks, Z!!!). This fic uses some OCs I've had hanging around for a while. It makes some reference to their previous adventures in a Welcome to Night Vale/Supernatural crossover I wrote called Nite Owls. But you definitely don't have to have read that one to understand this. You might have to be in a silly mood, though.
> 
> Also also, since people always ask, yes, it's finished, and it's about 5 chapters, 25K words. The Dean/Cas stuff is slow building, but keep in mind my last two or three Destiel fics have all been rejected by the LJ group for being unsufficiently Destiel-y. So, there's that.

_in your chariot yoked with swift, lovely_  
_sparrows bringing you over the dark earth_  
_thick-feathered wings swirling down_  
_-Sappho  
_ _(I've included this so you can see a bit of one of her poems. You'll see why later.)_

 

Three chairs were crowded in a semicircle around the hearth. 

The fire crackled, and sent a warm radiance through the room.

Two of the chairs were occupied. A third sat empty, a pair of reading glasses set on the end table nearby. 

The first of the women was young and pretty. She had long dark hair which spilled over her shoulder, smooth olive skin, and eyes of a surprising pale green. She sat under a distaff, from which raw flax thread slowly unwound onto a wooden wheel she spun at a steady tap. She said little, nodding her head and occasionally humming in agreement as the woman sitting next to her kept up a steady chatter.

The second woman was older, her dark hair splashed with streaks of grey. She wore it piled up on her head, bound in an untidy bun. She was plump, and when she smiled, which was often, fine lines creased the edges of her eyes, which were a bright cinnamon color. She sat before a a cast iron loom, upon which she wove a fine, brightly colored cloth. She pumped the ornate foot-treadle and sent the shuttle scudding over the fine threads at a steady pace. “So I said to Athena, I said, ‘Oh, honey, you’re not going out in _that_ , are you dear?” The shuttle made a pass through the warp, and the treadle cranked. “You’ll never catch a man that way!”

A door opened somewhere and a third woman entered the room, carrying a cardboard tray containing several paper coffee cups. She was older still than the other two women, her hair long and grey as gunmetal. She was thin and bony, but her eyes were bright as a flash of a sword. 

“Here is your pumpkin spice latte,” she told the young woman.

“Thank you, sister,” said the spinner, gladly accepting the tall paper cup. 

“And your Chai,” the old woman told the weaver.

“Thank you sister,” said the middle sister, who ceased chattering a moment to gracefully grab the short cup between passes of the shuttle.

“And my triple espresso,” the old woman concluded, setting down the cardboard tray, and hoisting a tiny paper cup.

“You might trim the viscose, dear,” the weaver told her. “It’s looking a little raggedy.”

“The rayon? Raggedy?” asked the old woman. 

“Yes. A bit.”

The old woman sipped her coffee and felt around on the doily-covered end table for her eyeglasses. She put them on and picked up an expanse of fine, lilac-colored fabric, placing it on her lap as she sat down in her chair. 

She paused and peered around the room, a frown creasing her forehead.

“What’s the matter, dear?” asked the weaver.

“Now, where have my scissors gone to?”

 

The Balenciaga show neared its climax. Dance music thrummed and the dry ice machines cranked into high gear as the audience leapt to its feet. Thunderous applause greeted the lanky models as they charged out to the runway one last time, escorting the triumphant designer, a smile tracing his face as he took his bows.

A small, dark-haired woman, who had been seated in the front row, swept out of the show, striding gracefully on improbably high heels, and into the cool of the Paris evening. She was dressed in at least a half dozen different shades of black. She turned the corner from the crowded boulevard to proceed confidently into the middle of a darkened alleyway. Popping her oversized sunglasses atop her head, she extracted a late model smart phone from her cluttered saddlebag and began typing in a text message.

A raven alit on her shoulder. “Please tell him I’ll be home soon, Muninn,” she muttered. Frowning, she dug into her bag and pulled out a ziploc containing a bit of seed, which the bird eagerly pecked up from her small hand. “I still have a McQueen floor show. And make sure the twins are in bed before eight!” she added as the dark bird took to wing, disappearing into the shadows.

She continued tapping on the phone with immaculately manicured fingers. After a while, she looked up, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Yes? And what did _you_ want?”

There was the flash of an angel blade, and a tall, gangling, South Asian-looking man wearing a dark, ill-fitting suit stepped out from where he had been concealed in the shadows alongside a dumpster.

“Raziel?” he asked.

She tapped a toe. “Yes, yes. It’s still Raziel. It’s been Raziel since you were created, dear. Now, what do you want? McQueen is supposed to have some very important looks!”

“I have come on orders from Heaven!” he intoned. He stood up straight, flashing the blade, and obviously trying to appear important. 

“Oh, Father, what are they up to now?” huffed Raziel, glancing at her watch. “I hope it’s not another Inquisition, because it's Paris Fashion Week and I really don’t have time.”

“You are a rogue angel, and it is time that you returned to Heaven.”

“Well, tell them thanks but no thanks. Heaven is just so _blah_! Now, I gotta scoot.” She began to hurry out of the alley.

The man shifted to stand in her way. He held up the angel blade in what he obviously hoped was a threatening manner. “If you do not agree to come peacefully, I have orders to bring you back … by force!”

Raziel stuffed her phone back into her bag and rolled her eyes. “Now, let me understand, sweetie: you’re threatening _me_?”

“Well … yes?” said the man, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Wearing _that_?” She jabbed a finger towards his creased jacket. “I mean, has anyone even told you the distinction between European and American fit? Because you really can’t split the difference!”

“Um….” 

“Ugh!” She suddenly lunged and yanked on his arm. Her grip was like iron. The angel found himself being dragged out of the alley. “I’m in a hurry, but I just can’t stomach seeing a fellow celestial being in distress. Now, I know a tailor who works late. By the way, have you ever tried a waistcoat? It really smartens up a look!”

 

“Hannah!”

Hannah sighed and looked up from her desk, wondering if it was typical to dislike the sound of one's own name. Perhaps she had been keeping company with Castiel too much? That angel had certainly picked up some oddly human-like mannerisms. 

She blinked in surprise at the sight of the angel who had just appeared in front of her. 

“Um, Barachiel? Is that you?”

The dark-eyed angel tugged at his shirt collar. His garb appeared very different from what his vessel had been wearing the last she’d seen him. It seemed to have been magically re-fashioned so it more closely followed the line of his body. The jacket had been shortened, and the trousers in were now quite narrow, which showed off-

“Hey, nice caboose!” came a voice.

“Pahaliah!” Hannah scolded. Pahaliah had definitely been hanging around on earth far too much. She claimed she was practicing being ineffable, but Hannah knew damned well she’d been lurking in some human dive bars.

Pahaliah shrugged and actually grinned, which only made Hannah squirm. She really wasn’t used to her brother and sister angels making such expressive gestures. Perhaps she would talk with Castiel about it next time they met? He was probably still on earth, driving around in that ridiculous vehicle of his.

“I went to contact Raziel, as you commanded,” Barachiel stammered. 

“Yes?” said Hannah, reluctantly forcing her attention off her memories of Castiel’s kind sea-blue eyes, and onto the matter at hand.

“And, uh, she gave me what she called a ‘make over.’”

Hannah peered questioningly at Barachiel. She supposed that explained why his suit had been restructured. Had he gotten a haircut as well? “Did you bring her back? What happened?”

“Uh, no, ma’am,” said Barachiel. “She was really strong. I mean, really strong. I haven’t felt anything like that since….” The angel lowered his voice. “Well, since _Michael_ was still around.” 

Both Hannah and Pahaliah – and really anyone within hearing distance – cringed. Their fallen brother’s name was rarely mentioned these days. He had been the strongest of them, and the bravest, the most shining. And now, when they needed him so, he, like their father, was lost. 

Hannah brushed her fears aside. One must push ahead, keep in the now. “Where is she now? Did you succeed in tracking her whereabouts?”

“She left me, claiming she needed to attend something called a 'trunk show.' I think it might have to do with elephants?”

“No, Barachiel, that’s where clothing designers show their ready-to-wear!” Pahaliah broke in.

“Why wouldn’t a garment be ready to wear?” asked Hannah. “Isn’t that its purpose?”

Pahaliah puffed out an annoyed breath, which fluttered up her vessels’s blond bangs. Hannah frowned. She hadn’t recalled Pahaliah’s vessel as being blond. Had she been utilizing human hair care products? “You guys should catch Oprah some time!” Pahaliah continued.

“May I ask why you are here, Pahaliah?” Hannah sighed. “Weren’t you assigned to guard … the prisoner?” 

“Prisoner's why I'm here. He’s been asking for you,” Pahaliah told her.

Hannah once again regretted her own name. Perhaps she would request of Castiel that the Winchester boy dub her one of those human _knick names_. He seemed to excel at this task.

 _Well, better to get this over with_. “Let’s go see what he wants,” she sighed. She rose from her desk, shaking her head at the piles of paperwork stacked up all over the place, and followed Pahaliah towards the jail cells, Barachiel (for whatever reason) tagging along behind them. Hannah caught a whiff of something. Was her soldier now wearing human cologne? 

Hannah’s stomach turned as they proceeded down the darkened corridor. _He_ had designed this area of Heaven, and they hadn’t a chance to re-make it. Currently it was far too reminiscent of a human jail, and they were not humans. It reminded her of something from the underworld, or a chilly basement down on earth. A dungeon? Was that the word she was searching for?

But the worst thing by far was not the setting: it was the prisoner. He was such a … what had the Winchester boy compared him to again? A _douche_? It was apt.

“Ha! I wondered when I’d see you again!” he chuckled. Hannah noticed that he always tended to act as if he were the jailer, and they, his prisoners. Metatron turned from the corner of his cell, where he was tending to his only remaining possession: a little sprig of a tree, which he endlessly fussed over. Hannah made a mental note to talk to the guards about it. Someone must have felt sorry for him and gifted it to him, and they really couldn't get soft on this one.

“What is it now?” Hanna barked, eager to get this over with. “And none of your tricks, Metatron!”

“Gotten snappish since you’re away from your little boyfriend?” he taunted, setting down his little flowered watering can. Barachiel glanced curiously at Hannah, and Pahaliah grinned and snapped her gum, which lead Hannah to wonder where the hell the angel had gotten chewing gum. She needed to write another memo about this. “Oh, that's right,” Metatron continued, his expression a parody of sympathy. “Old Blue Eyes dumped your ass, didn't he?”

“Enough!” said Hannah. “Either tell me what this is about-“

“I love it when you take command,” said Metatron, as Pahaliah began to blow a bubble.

“I don’t have time for this,” Hannah sighed. She turned on her heel to go.

“You’re going after Raziel, aren’t you?” said Metatron.

Hannah halted in her tracks.

“Yes, that’s what we’ve been doing!” Barachiel volunteered before Hannah could shush him.

Metatron looked Barachiel up and down, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Oh, you’ve smartened up, Barachiel!” Metatron told him. “You’re looking like that hot Winchester brother!”

“Which one is the hot Winchester brother?” Hannah blurted before she realized what she was saying.

“Dean Winchester!” sighed Pahaliah, at the very same moment Barachiel cooed, “Sam Winchester.” The two angels then glared at one another, Pahaliah chewing vigorously as her gum bubble popped, and Barachiel straightening to his vessel’s full height (which was somewhat over six feet) and tugging at his collar.

“Stop it,” Hannah grumbled.

“You didn’t have any luck with her, did you?” asked Metatron, his eyes taking on a feral cast.

“You already know that,” snapped Hannah. 

“Not used to dealing with bratty _archangels_ ,” Metatron sniffed.

The three angels gathered outside the cell bars went silent. “Raziel isn't an archangel,” Hannah finally stated, though her voice lacked her usual confidence.

“Well, of course all the references to it have been destroyed,” said Metatron. He had that horrible expression on his face now, like a feline drunk on catnip. “Hello, scribe of God? Goes with the territory.” He always acted as if he was talking to a group of fledglings. 

“I'm listening,” said Hannah. “She was our father's scribe prior to your service?”

Metatron rolled his eyes. “That was back before my time. Back when Our Father thought those overpowered chuckleheads were actually of some use. But they're far too flighty to do the job! And then, of course, at the end of her service, she lit out of here and took off with his Book of Secrets and Mysteries. No New York Times bestseller for Our Father! Nope! She gave it away to the first humans! Gave it away!” he repeated, as if the gathered angels were too thick-headed to catch his meaning. 

“The Book of Secrets and Mysteries. There's some kabbalistic lore to that effect,” Barachiel mused. _“Sefer Raziel HaMalach.”_

“But that's all garbage!” Pahaliah interjected. “Humans! They’ll believe any New Age claptrap.”

“Is it?” asked Metatron.

“And why are you telling us this?” Hannah asked, her vessel's striking blue eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“It seems you have a problem. This isn't just a rogue angel. You have a rogue _archangel_ on the loose. Hasn't worked out so well, in the past,” he taunted.

Hannah didn't answer, and for once, the other angels were silent as well. Metatron, damn him, might have a point here. 

“And as it happens, I can help you,” concluded the scribe. There followed a smile that chilled Hannah to her vessel's very marrow.

“For a price,” Hannah concluded.

“Naturally. There is the little matter of my freedom-”

“Leave us,” Hannah snapped at Pahaliah and Barachiel. The two began to answer back, but something in Hannah's tone conveyed that this was in fact an order, not a suggestion. They exchanged a glance, and then headed away, leaving only the scent of Pahaliah's cinnamon chewing gum and a whiff of Barachiel's cologne.

“So, you're really going to discuss letting me go?” asked Metatron.

“No,” said Hannah. “But I can offer you something else. Something to take the edge off of your confinement.”

Metatron did not reply, but he was staring at her.

“A book. A kind of … first edition.”

Metatron drew closer to the bars. A tongue flicked out between his lips. “What? What book?”

“This is conditional. If your story proves to be true. And if your words really do help us.”

“All right. All right.” He had crept very close. Stifling a shudder, Hannah stood her ground. In fact, she leaned in, her voice hushed.

“Sappho's works. The complete compendium.”

Metatron scowled, but could not conceal the light in his eyes. “Her poetry was lost. Lost in the fire! The library at Alexandria.”

“I have a connection,” Hannah told him. “A source.”

She could feel him mulling it over. And then Metatron’s mouth curled into a dreadful simulcrum of a smile. “There is a spell. Lost with the angel tablet, unfortunately – the one Loverboy smashed. But it can bring an archangel to heel.”

Hannah cringed at the mention of Castiel. “But, as you said, the tablet is gone.”

“All up here, my dear.” Metatron bobbled his head. “I have it memorized. Bring me to her, and-“

“We’ll bring _her_ to _you_.”

Metatron’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll never manage that! She vowed never to return.”

“Leave that to me. But if we bring her here you’ll … deal with her? In exchange for the scrolls?”

Metatron nodded. “I will need some items first. Elements for the spell.”

“I'll have one of my lieutenants draw up a list.” Hannah turned and strode away from the cell before he could change his mind. The whole way down the corridor, though, she had an tickling in the middle of her back, as if a pair of eyes were following her along, boring into her.

The office, when she returned, reeked of a burnt, buttery smell. She noticed several angels gathered around a container of microwave popcorn. Why the hell did that even have that stuff up here? Angels didn’t need to eat. On the other hand, Pahaliah and Barachiel were among those gathered around, stuffing their faces. That was good.

Hannah still wasn’t used to lying. She didn’t really want them to see her.

She picked up the phone at her desk and hit the speed dial.

 

Dean sat down. 

And then he got up.

And then he sat down again.

He stood up yet again. He should probably go to the kitchen and get some coffee. Only he didn’t really need to get any jumpier. But at least he could poke around making coffee. Sammy would drink it when he got back. Sammy! Dean glanced over at the clock. How long did it take to go grocery shopping, anyway? He probably should have gone along: then he wouldn’t be sitting here going stir crazy. But it still felt awkward, sitting in the car with his brother. The silences....

They needed a case or something. Despite Cas’s advice to lay off. Of course, the angel had dropped his celestial wisdom and then took off like Dean was carrying double Ebola or something. Maybe he was?

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean spun around. “Cas! What’s up?” 

Cas started to answer, but then instead launching into a coughing fit, burying his face into the crook of his elbow, his shoulders shaking.

“Hey, buddy,” said Dean. He had a hand on Cas’s back now, and his voice was soft. “What’s the deal? You carrying angel Ebola or something?”

“I do not believe it is Ebola,” Cas told him with utmost sincerity. Dean noticed that the angel’s skin was pale, and he had terrible bags around his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in half a year. 

“Is this the grace thing then? Are you OK? You’re not gonna die are you?” Dean found himself asking. Surprisingly, Cas let himself be steered into a chair. 

“I’m fine.”

“That’s what you say when you’re _not_ fine,” Dean countered, which prompted a small smile from his friend. His friend! Dean sat down next to the angel. Cas looked like shit warmed over, to be honest, but also, this was the best thing that had happened to Dean all week. 

“I need your help.”

“Yeah, you do. You need some Nyquil for one,” said Dean, who popped up again, headed towards the medicine chest.

“Dean-“ Cas started, but then launched into another coughing fit. Dean returned forthwith with Dayquil Cough and Cold and, before the angel could relate his story, followed along with a cup of tea (he found some of Sam’s girlie herbal tea bags) and then a bowl of tomato rice soup. Because dealing with snot-nosed little brothers? Hells yeah, Dean could do that. 

“This wasn’t necessary,” said Cas, though he was no longer coughing.

“Eat your soup,” Dean scolded, finally sliding back into his chair. 

Cas smiled again, and it was glorious to behold. And then he sipped another spoonful of soup, and smiled again. “Dean, I need your help. That's why I'm here. There is a rogue angel.”

“Wasn’t that what you were up to with your old friend, Little Miss Stabbypants?”

“Hannah?” asked Cas, who, bless him, appeared genuinely confused. 

“Stab first, ask questions later. What is up with you angels, anyway?”

Cas mulled it over. “That is a good question. We were created as soldiers.” Dean scowled and pointed at the soup, and Cas took another spoonful. “This is an _archangel_ , Dean.”

Dean sat back, crossing his arms. “Wait, what? I thought you dudes were fresh out of arches?”

“She departed heaven long ago, and has lived her life in isolation.”

“So why are we poking the hornet’s nest?”

“Miss, uh, _Stabbypants_ wishes for her to return to heaven. I asked to take on this role myself because, as you have said, Hannah and I tend to use differing tactics in these matters.”

“You mean less of the stabbing?”

Dean and Cas exchanged another smile. “I think you and I can persuade her to return to heaven peacefully. Once there, I believe we can convince Hannah and the other angels that she may continue to live on earth.”

“That’s a lot of maybe’s, Cas,” said Dean, who was awfully pleased to see Cas scraping his spoon on the bottom of his soup bowl. 

“But we have gone up against much worse odds, you and I.” 

Dean nodded. Despite his skepticism, mentally he was already packing the car. He self-consciously scratched at the Mark on his forearm.

“Cas!” said Sam. Dean looked up. He somehow hadn’t noticed his brother entering the bunker, laden with supplies. The younger Winchester plopped a couple of grocery bags on the table and went to engulf Cas in a big, moose-y hug. “I _thought_ that was your car out there! Why didn’t you call, dude?” Sam’s eyes swept over the remains of the soup and tea on the table, and then alit on Dean, his eyebrow curved in his best “what the fuck, Dean?” expression. 

“Cas and I were gonna head out and have a little talk with one of his sisters,” Dean said by way of explaining without actually explaining anything.

“Just you and Cas?” said Sam, who was now pulling a Full Metal Bitchface.

“What, do I need a hall pass?” asked Dean. It came out a bit more sharply than he had intended, so he backtracked a bit. “We're fine. We're _both_ fine.” But that came out a little weird as well.

Sam sat his moose butt down on the table and pointedly picked up the bottle of Dayquil. He directed his gaze at Cas. 

The angel put down his spoon and folded his hands in his lap. “I know. I've looked better.” He cracked a small smile, and that made Sam smile a little, and now, for some damn reason, everything was all right again. 

As soon as he could, Dean snagged the car keys back from Sammy and hustled Cas out of there, along with a couple packages of Dayquil tablets.

 

Cas felt better.

No – he really did.

Dean glanced over at him. He was driving his beloved Impala and singing along with Led Zeppelin. He smiled at Cas and then returned his attentions to out-screaming the human rock musician, Robert Plant.

Cas smiled back and returned to staring out the window, watching the world roll by. It wasn't so bad, really, driving along in a car. Only a few years ago he had seen car travel as slow and confining. But he had been wrong. You saw things you might have missed, flying over. 

He had been steering clear of his friends, the Winchester brothers, lately. Well, steering clear of Sam at least, as Dean had been otherwise occupied. He didn't want to trouble them with his coming death. And it was inevitable now. Crowley had given him a reprieve - for what reasons, Cas couldn't even venture to guess, they were inevitably as twisted as the demon's soul. But soon enough his light would permanently extinguish. It was better that his friends were not burdened by this.

Cas took this brief respite for what it was: no more, no less. He would do what he could to ease the path of his fellow angels, and prevent yet another conflict. And if that meant stealing a few days in the company of his friend, Dean Winchester, then so be it.

“What was that, Dean?” 

The driver lowered the volume on the stereo. “This was a good idea, huh, Cas?” Dean repeated. “Coming out here like this. I mean, I needed a break. Sounds like you needed a couple days off too, huh?”

The angel thought upon Dean's remark. He supposed it was what humans considered a rhetorical question. Dean was not really soliciting his opinion, but rather asking for a confirmation. “Yes, Dean. I have found that I enjoy road trips.”

“Hey, that's great. And you riding shotgun. You're looking better too! I bet the fresh air is doing you good.”

Cas found he was much chuffed to hear Dean's remark, despite the fact that Dean had placed the car's air conditioner to the recirculation setting, meaning he had an odd idea concerning “fresh air.” On the other hand, Dean had just complimented his appearance. He wanted to please Dean, somehow. If this was going to be one of their last interactions, then it was good that Dean found it comforting. 

“Yes, I believe you are right, Dean,” Cas told him. 

That got a big grin. “Hey, this tape's done. Wanna pick one?” Dean asked, indicating the box of cassette tapes. 

Cas offered a smile, pulled the box up on his lap, and began to dig through it.

 

“Hannah?”

Hannah did not need to look up to see Pahaliah hovering over her desk. “Yes,” she muttered, continuing to stare at her paperwork. Perhaps she could make this quick.

“You know the list of stuff we got from Metatron?”

“Yes.”

“For the spell?”

“Yes,” Hannah blurted, just as the tip of her pencil broke. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to look up. “Yes, yes, yes, Pahaliah. I know of those things. Why aren't you at your post?”

Pahaliah was there, big as life and just as blond. “So, the last ingredient?”

“You can't find it?” Hannah asked. She tossed the broken pencil aside and began to rummage around her desk drawer for another. 

“No. That’s not it.”

“If you can find it, then please go obtain it.” Hannah found another pencil, but it was dull as well. She tossed it aside.

“I can't.”

“Why not?” Another dull pencil. And another. And … _voila_! A sharpened pencil.

Pahaliah snapped her gum. Where was she getting the gum? Hannah went back to her paperwork. “It's in the Vault.”

Hannah snapped another pencil point. She flung the pencil across the room, where it smacked into a Cherub, third class, who had been hanging out by the water cooler. “Ouch!” the Cherub declared, rubbing his upper arm. He took one look at Hannah's murderous glare, and then scurried away. 

“Interdepartmental!” sang Pahaliah.

“I am well aware of that,” Hannah snapped. Oh, the paperwork! Hannah was rapidly beginning to understand why their Father had packed up and left: running heaven was no picnic. But Castiel was already on his way to pick up the rogue angel. They needed to get this done on an accelerated schedule.

Clearly, decisive action was called for. And Hannah knew just where to go. She pulled her cell phone from her drawer and thumbed her way to “Winchester” on her speed dial.

 

Downtown San Claretian was confusing as fuck. For one thing, the freeway seemed to be twisted into some kind of figure eight. 

Dean had to admit, it was probably partly his fault. Cas had to divine the directions from an ancient, much-creased AAA map, as Dean wouldn't suffer any of the GPS crap in his baby. So it was that after a couple of missed exits and an unintended cruise out to the suburbs to the west, they finally alit at the convention center. And then there was some amount of threading around and across all the one way streets and bridges, as Dean Winchester would be god damned if he was gonna pay for parking in this shithole.

At long last, they walked towards the convention center. The sky was pale blue, and there were an awful lot of people swanning around outside, sporting truly ridiculous outfits. “Have you dragged me to another comic book convention?” Dean asked Cas.

“I believe it is a fashion show. My sister greatly admires _haute couture_.”

Dean nearly stopped in his tracks. Had the angel really spoken the words, _haute couture_? “Wait, Cas? A fashionista angel? Seriously?” They passed by a man with long hair wearing a pink shirt and flowing pink scarf being interviewed for a TV station. “You think we're gonna be able to find her in this crowd of fashion douche bags?”

Cas was glancing at his phone. “She's coming to meet us.”

This time, Dean did come to a halt. “Hang on! Is she a friend of yours, Cas?”

“Well, it's a long story-” Cas hedged.

“Little brother!” trilled a short, dark haired woman wearing a miniskirt and ridiculously high heels. Dean's hand went to the gun at his waistband as she lunged at Cas, grabbing him and dragging him down, but it turned out her intent was merely to position him for a European style air kiss. “It's been too long!” she continued when she finally released him from her (apparently) iron grip. She set her dark sunglasses atop her head and stared at him. She clucked her tongue and now seized his chin. “Oh, you're looking a little peaked. Have you swallowed some bad grace, dear?”

“Raziel,” said Cas, waving a hand. “Do you remember my friend, Dean Winchester?”

“Oh of course I remember your little friend!” she cooed, twirling around to give Dean the air kiss treatment as well. She looked like she might have been 5'2” without the ridiculous shoes, but she was strong as an ox. “How sweet! We really should invite you up! The kids miss you!” she told Dean. “And little Jack is flying so well now!”

Dean, though flustered, tried to show a charming expression. “Uh, your kid is flying?”

“Ever since you taught him!” she laughed. “Now, we're late for the exhibition.”

“We lost our way, driving in,” Cas explained.

“Why didn't you fly? Oh, no bother, but we'll need to hurry!” And suddenly she was up on tiptoe, tapping each of their foreheads with two scrupulously manicured fingers.

“What the hell?” Dean sputtered as the earth lurched beneath him. He looked around, and found that they were now inside some kind of museum. “So much for finding close parking,” he grumbled.

“This is the exhibition of the collection of the late Edina Monsoon,” Raziel supplied as she swept out an arm, her gauzy sleeve fluttering like a wing. “The terribly eccentric CEO of the Entity label.”

“So it's fashion crap?” asked Dean, who looked over his shoulder and cringed when confronted by a rather furious tribal mask hung from the wall behind him.

“Her taste was as capricious as her fashion line was fabulous. No one has matched her utilization of fabrics.” 

“She's, like, a designer?” asked Dean, who was now gazing at the wall of masks.

“She was. She recently passed away, quite unexpectedly. A bizarre gardening accident, so I understand. A bit odd, because she truly hated nature. Oh, I see an acquaintance over there. I'll be back. Try not to get into too much trouble. The hors d'oeuvre table is thataway.” With a wave of her hand, she fluttered across the room, calling out a name that sounded Italian.

“Daffy chick,” said Dean. He turned to Cas. “So, all this time you had an archangel on your speed dial and you didn't think to say anything?”

Cas looked slightly guilty – but only slightly. “She prefers to live quietly.”

That sounded a bit fishy. Dean began to gravitate in the direction of the direction she had indicated, following the crowd of well-dressed people munching on little pastries. “And she thinks she knows me?”

“She does, actually. You met in a kind of alternate reality. As I am an angel, I experience all alternative universes simultaneously. You, however, would not remember.”

“I got no idea what that means,” Dean admitted. He walked past a large glass display case and glanced down, stopping for a moment to stare. He let out a low whistle. “Nice!”

Cas stopped as well and peered into the glass. “That is a very beautifully crafted sword. …And the existence of alternate universes has something to do with quantum physics. You are aware of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, being present in all states at the same time.”

Dean gazed at the sword. For some reason, he felt drawn to it, as if it fit his hand. Something like.... He flexed his hand, and then tore his eyes away, glaring at Cas. “Heisenberg? Doesn't that have something to do with dead cats in a box?”

“My sister does not wish anyone harm; she simply wishes to remain in peace, with her family.”

“Remain in peace, huh? Oh, you mean as if someone wanted to just go ahead and live his life and be a demon?” Dean wasn't certain why he said it, and why the words came out so harshly. His forearm, over the Mark, had started to itch. 

Suddenly, Dean felt his wrist being grabbed. Raziel was there, holding his arm, staring at the expanse of his shirt that lay over the Mark. “How long have you been carrying Cain's Mark? Haven't seen that one for a while!” She dropped Dean's arm, her face gaining a philosophical cast. “How is the old grump doing, anyway? His father was _so_ disappointed in him. But I told him, you know, Adam, children have to make their own place in the world, and if inventing fratricide was going to be his place in the world- Oh, excuse me!” she added as her phone sang out a snippet from a sullen voice, _“You, soft and only, you, lost and lonely-”_ Raziel frowned at the screen. “Sorry, I need to take this! Their daddy is off on one of his wild hunts, so we had to get a sitter for the kids.” She walked away a few steps and started to chatter with someone named Nepthys on the other end.

Dean rubbed his arm self-consciously. He looked up to see Cas was staring at him with an inquisitive expression. “And what's this deal about Raz having a family and kids?” he whispered to Cas. “I thought you told me there weren't any more Nephilim since you and Metatron took care of that waitress?”

“Um, her children are not Nephils,” said Cas, who sounded a lot like someone who was hedging. Dean huffed in frustration. This was supposed to be a straightforward mission, but it was turning out just plain annoying.

“How did they get the hammer?” Raziel had raised her voice, and both Dean and Cas turned to stare at her. “Their brother needs to learn to put it away. Well, get out the lightning rod and I'll be there in a blink.” She hung up the phone and approached Dean and Cas again, rolling her dark eyes. “Sorry, I have to dash out for a little bit. The twins were messing with their half-brother's stuff again. Blended families, you know. Always a challenge! See you around dinnertime, maybe? Meanwhile, do try the canapes. There's some of the pizza roll thingies you like, Dean, dear.” She blew a kiss, turned around, and, with the rushing of wings, was there no more. 

“And that's another thing,” Dean continued, waving a hand at the empty space that once held an archangel, “she can still zap around?”

“Would you care to check on the hors d'oeuvres?” Cas suggested. “And, um, yes, it is quite possible Metatron's spell did not negatively impact archangels.”

Dean glowered, and attempted to remain resentful. However, they were now within sight of the hors d'oeuvres table, and it was indeed an amazing spread. Besides the promised pizza rolls, there were mini bagel dogs, mini sandwiches, mini pastries, plus a selection of fresh berries and an actual chocolate fountain. And best of all, an open bar nearby. “OK, I'm gonna eat, and then I'm gonna get kinda drunk, and then we're gonna talk about this. You get me, Cas?”

“That seems like an acceptable plan,” said Cas, who was already helping himself to a tiny hamburger. 

“You're eating now?” asked Dean, who failed to tinge the statement with the correct amount of skepticism, as he now found himself smiling at the sight of the angel noshing a ridiculously small burger with apparent relish.

“It's probably an echo from my vessel, but I still have a taste for these,” Cas smacked. He even licked his fingers.

Dean was actually grinning. He handed his angel a paper napkin. “OK. You wanna grab some grub and look around here, as long as we have the time?”

“I would be interested, actually. It appears that a lot of these artifacts have some magical significance.”

“Really?” Dean had handed Cas a little paper plate and was now concentrating on Jenga-ing his own small dish to maximum capacity. His mind drifted to the sword, and its strange pull on him. It hadn't been as strong as the effect of the First Blade, but felt oddly similar.

“I believe the donor, Miss Monsoon, had an interest in the paranormal,” said Cas, gulping down another miniature burger. “For example, these sabers were typical of a type used to combat rakshasas – demons – in ancient India. And here is a bow and quiver which also served that purpose.”

Dean toted his plate of food and followed Cas around the exhibition. It was getting late, so there weren’t a lot of other people, and for whatever reason, the angel was in a rare expansive mood. Dean wondered if they need to let Cas muck around in the MoL archives some time: he would probably geek out on all the stuff. Maybe he and Sam could have a slumber party. He actually stifled a laugh when the thought brought up the image of Cas and his gigantic baby brother wearing footie pajamas. Fortunately, Cas, who was leaning over a display case of enchanted jewelry, appeared not to notice. “And this talisman was reputed to ward off hungry ghosts,” Cas was explaining, “although the inscription actually reads, ‘famished in-laws.’”

Dean openly laughed at this. He wanted to ask Cas if they had a talisman to ward off hungry angels, but didn’t get to ask, as suddenly, the air was pierced by a loud scream.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean and Cas exchanged a glance. “Come on!” Dean urged, and, discarding their small plates of canapés, they both ran off towards the direction of the scream, threading through knots of fleeing museum-goers. 

The noise was coming from back where Raziel had first set them down. Dean realized what they were up against as they drew nearer: he felt a chill run down his spine, and saw his breath condense into a veil of mist. When he spotted her through the doorway, he halted, signaling for Cas to stop as well.

“Give it back! You need to give it back!” shrieked an entity that was most definitely not alive any more. It had been a she – at least Dean presumed it had been female. It was wearing a rather odd and complex looking outfit, and carrying a really hideous, huge handbag. Despite the commotion, Dean had to pause to wonder what use a ghost lady could make of a purse in the afterlife. Did she still need to haul lipstick around?

Dean realized that the entity was standing across the room from the display case that housed the intriguing sword. He cautiously peeked around the door to see who or what she was screaming at, and suddenly understood why the room had cleared so quickly. There was something else standing in front of the display case. Dean had run into a lot of weird beings, but this guy really took the cake. Two blazing red eyes bulged out of a face even a mother would have trouble loving. It had hideously pointed teeth, including two wicked fangs. It stood up on two stubby legs, but had four arms. 

Every hand held a flashing sword.

“What the hell is that?” Dean asked Cas, who was beside him, heedless of personal space issues. “Some kinda monster?”

“Rakshasa,” said Cas. “A demon.”

“Fugly son of a bitch.”

“His kind is said to be generated from the breath of the Brahma. So there was no illegitimacy involved.”

“Cas!” But Dean noticed the angel's lip was curled in a soft smile. “Fucker,” he muttered. The smile broadened.

“You had better let me deal with him,” Cas instructed. “You see to the spirit entity.”

“Cas, you sure you got the mojo for this? You only got one angel blade, and that dude's got four!” But before Cas could reply, the ghost took the initiative and flew at the rakshasa. He flourished his four shining blades, but she countered by slamming him with her heavy – if spectral – handbag. The demon fell back, its nostrils flaring. And then Cas was upon it, knocking it across the room.

“He's still got mojo,” Dean told himself. “OK, iron. Where's iron?” There was a crash, and Dean turned to see Cas getting flung into the wall display of enchanted spears, which were knocked down on top of him.

Dean was about to help his friend when, “Oof!” Something heavy as fuck got him in the back and he fell to his knees. Scrambling back to his feet, he pivoted around.

“Give it back!” howled the ghost, drawing back her overstuffed designer handbag in preparation for another blow.

Dean ducked, and the ghost suddenly got blasted back. Dean turned to see Cas was standing over him. “What the hell with that fucking purse?” said Dean.

“That’s a crocodile Birkin bag,” the angel told him.

“And how the hell do you know that?”

“Uh, I believe Metatron had some rather odd pop cultural knowledge,” Cas confessed. There was a howl as the rakshasa picked itself up from where Cas had zapped it and began to charge. Cas ran to meet it, but called back to Dean. “Neutralize that ghost!” And then the angel was back in the fray.

“Dammit, I need iron!” Dean told himself, scanning the surroundings as the sound of someone – Cas or the monster, he didn’t know – knocking down more museum pieces rang in his ears. His eyes were drawn back to the display case with the magic sword. He dashed across the room while doffing his denim jacket. He wound the jacket around his arm and smashed the glass. This set off an alarm, but Dean figured with all the commotion, no one was gonna care. 

He grabbed the blade out of the display case and ran back to where Cas was still going WWE on the rakshasa. He'd evidently thrown the thing clean through the wall, and it was currently picking itself up and shaking off the drywall powder. 

Dean felt a shiver. “Give it back!” the ghost woman hollered again. She drew back her ridiculously overpriced handbag for another attack, but Dean swung the sword right through her, and she blinked out. 

And then, with a whiff of sulfur, the rakshasa disappeared as well. Cas, who was standing poised, his angel blade in hand, looked around in confusion. 

The alarm Dean had set off was still ringing, and now was added the sound of sirens in the distance. His boots crunching through the broken glass and pottery, Dean approached Cas. The angel's eyes had lost focus, as if he were scanning for something Dean didn’t see. “Did we get ‘em?” he asked the angel.

“I don’t sense them any more. But did that seem-?”

“Too easy?” asked Dean, giving the sword a little flip. Cas nodded. Sirens blared, and now red lights were flashing. “C’mon, buddy, let’s get outta here before the local donut-eaters arrive.” He pointed the sword towards an emergency exit, and both of them fled outside.

 

He even had a rubber duckie.

Sam liked hot baths. He wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe it stemmed from growing up in hotels, having to suffer through so many lukewarm showers in musty bathrooms. 

Whatever the reason, he sure as hell didn't clue his brother in. He could just imagine Dean's reaction! “Oh, want some candles and a nice Harlequin novel, Sammy?” Sam grinned and leaned back in the tub. He hadn't even told Dean when he'd discovered the MoL washroom. It had one of those perfect old Victorian clawfoot tubs: the kind you could fill all the way up to your chest. He'd bought some fruity bubble stuff – the kind he'd never gotten as a kid. Why the hell not? Dean was off who knows where with the angel. They were probably having one of those bizarre staring contests even now. 

Sam didn't mind. It was kind of relaxing to have Dean out of town. And the hot water soothed his injured shoulder. He was out of the sling, but the joint was still a little twitchy. No, it was great that Cas had grabbed his brother and took off for whatever dumb angel business. And he wasn't terribly offended that Dean hadn't asked him along. Not terribly. After Sam had spent all that time tracking him down when he'd gone demon. And injured himself doing it! Nope, he wasn't offended. Sam shrugged his shoulder. Yes, the joint was still a little painful, but it was getting better. He really shouldn't have messed up with that stupid demon he'd been interrogating. Cas blamed himself, but it was Sam's fault. Cirso – what kind of a name for a demon was that anyway?

Dumb demons. Dumb brothers, with their dumb angels.

His was slipping under the bubbles when his phone rang. He slid up, grabbed the phone, and almost but not quite managed to drop it in the bath. Slippery fingers managed to hit the button just before it went to voice mail.

“Dean?”

“Sammy, she's nuts!”

Sam rolled his eyes and slid back down into the tub. Speaking of dumb! “What? The angel?

“No, the ghost.”

“What ghost? I thought you guys were tracking down a rogue angel?”

“It doesn't matter,” came his brother’s voice. “Look, do me a solid, and check into Edina Monsoon, will ya? Some eccentric fashionista chick or something.”

Sam picked up his rubber duckie and squeezed it. It squeaked. “Yeah, I'll get right on that.”

“What was that? You got mice?”

“Uh.” Sam dumped the duckie back in the tub. “Nothing. I'll look into your fashionista.”

“And also look up the lore on the archangel Raziel.”

“ _Archangel_?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, that's Cas's rogue sister.”

Sam paused, glaring at his rubber duckie. The duckie glared back. “Wait, I didn't know you guys were after an _archangel_.”

“And while you're at it, look up rak-a-what....” Dean paused, and Sam could hear Cas's voice in the background. “Rakshasa! Some kinda demon thing. Lotsa arms. Bad temper.”

Sam put a hand through his hair. “OK, Dean, what the hell?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Seriously, Dean, some day, you really gotta learn to look up something online besides tentacle porn.”

“That’s why I have you, little brother!”

“Are you sure-?” Sam abruptly halted in mid-thought, straining his ears. Yes, that was a noise, and no, it damn sure wasn't a rubber duckie. “Dean, gotta call you back!”

“What?”

“I think I heard something.”

“Yeah, I told you! Be careful.”

“Will do.” 

His hunter instincts kicking in, Sam stood up as quietly as possible and, tossing the cell phone aside, grabbed his gun and then grabbed a towel. He quickly realized that this was the wrong order to do things. Dripping and muttering curses, he managed to drape a towel more or less around his waist and then crept towards the bathroom door, which he'd left slightly ajar. He pointed nose and gun barrel down the hallway. Yes, he definitely heard soft footsteps and low voices. And they appeared to be coming nearer. It was odd: they didn't seem to be sneaking around. Sam wasn't certain if that was good or bad, so he prepared for the worst.

The voices neared.

Sam gripped his gun.

Sam leapt, slamming the door open, and pointing his gun. “Stop right there!” he ordered, raising himself to his full height in order to appear as intimidating as possible. This, unfortunately, caused the already poorly draped towel to sag yet more towards his nether regions.

The trio halted. It was two females and a male. 

“Ooo!” said one woman, a bleached blonde wearing an outfit that appeared about one size too tight for her. She was smiling and giving Sam an openly appraising look.

“You're right,” the tall, gangly male beside her whispered. “He _is_ the hot Winchester.”

“Sam Winchester,” said the last female. This one, at least, Sam recognized. It was that stabby angel chick who had tried to behead his brother.

Sam lowered his weapon and raised the towel. Even silver bullets wouldn't do much against this crew, but they didn't appear to be threatening him. At least at present. “Hannah, right? What the fuck do you want? And how the hell did you get in here?”

“We require your assistance,” Hannah told him. 

“Can I put on pants first?” Sam grumbled, as he noticed the blond chick angel was still leering at him. 

“Um. Yes, please do so,” said Hannah, which caused blondie to giggle and whoever the guy was to smirk. 

Angels. How he despised angels!

Sam shut himself in the bathroom, rinsed off the bubbles as best he could, and got into some clothes. As it turned out, the angels had gotten the bunker’s location from Castiel (he was gonna have to have a talk with the blabby angel, or better yet make Dean give him a talking to) and the guy and girl were named something like this-iel or that-iel. 

“And, I’m still not getting what you want from me?” Sam told Hannah. He had a tendency to think of angels – the ones who weren’t openly douches, that is – as mid-level bureaucrats, but Hannah seemed to have this down to an art.

“We have certain requirements on a stringent timeline, and we have heard that you and your brother are…. That is, you have a reputation for….” She swept her eyes around the Men of Letters bunker, where the guy in the fancy suit was fussing with a broken lamp. When did angels start worrying so much about what they were wearing, anyway? The guy’s suit looked like something out of Italian _Vogue_ (not that Sam would ever mention anything like this to Dean, for risk of being teased for the rest of his natural life) and he could swear he was doused in some kind of expensive cologne.

“We gotta grab something from the Vault,” the bottle blonde suddenly piped up. Hannah flashed her a smiting glance, but the blonde raised her hands, in a very human-like gesture. “Hey, I don’t want this to take all day. I got an appointment to get my nails done.”

“The Vault?” asked Sam.

“The Vault of Embargoed Relics, Blessed Objects and Tenebrous and Egregious Notions,” Hannah confessed, as Sam supposed Blondie had already spilled the beans. “We need to retrieve an item there, but going through channels.... Well, it's not in our best interest right now. We have heard that you and your brother have certain ways of … doing things,” she concluded lamely.

Sam grinned wide. “You want me to steal something for you.” It wasn't even a question. Hannah's exasperated expression was its own reward. _Sucks to be you, Little Miss Stabby_ , Sam thought, relishing the notion. 

 

“WILL BE BACK IN TWO SHAKES CAS DEAR. TALK 2 PATSY. SUCH A DEAR.”

Cas blinked up from his smart phone. He wasn’t entirely certain whether that last was supposed to refer to himself or to the interview subject. His sister’s communication style was unusual, but seemed characteristic of those interested in human fashion. “Raziel suggests that while she is delayed elsewhere, Miss Monsoon’s former partner will have potentially useful information.”

“You said she’s delayed because her kid … flew up a tree?” asked Dean. He glanced over from the driver’s seat with an expression, Cas had come to learn, of great skepticism.

“Yes. Baby Jack, who was left unattended momentarily during the retrieval of his elder brother’s enchanted hammer, unfortunately flew somewhere into the upper branches of the Tree of Life. His brother and sister are currently pursuing him, but their mother thought it best to remain home until he is safely retrieved.”

“That’s pretty weird for a child care issue. And how big is this Egg-drizzle tree, anyway? And you know Egg-drizzle sounds like something you'd order in a Chinese take-out?”

“Well, it is the center of the Norse cosmology.” Cas glanced over at Dean, who was shaking his head. They came to a halt at a stoplight. “Dean. You said that souls have been trapped in the veil since Metatron’s spell?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah,” said Dean, who began to fiddle with the radio. He looked up when Cas grabbed his wrist. Their eyes met, Dean staring up at Cas through his lashes. Dean licked his lips. For a fraction of a second, there was something oddly vulnerable about his expression.

“You should have told me,” Cas scolded.

The light went from red to green. Dean stared a moment longer, and then shook off Cas’s hand and stepped on the accelerator. “We were busy with stuff. And you were busy. There was stuff!” he muttered.

“Dean, is it possible you were protecting my feelings over the consequences of Metatron’s spell? There was no need for this.”

Dean avoided his eyes this time, poking at the radio dial again as he drove. “ _Feelings_. You’ve been hanging out with Sammy too much!” He smiled, and it was softer than the words. 

“Still, I wonder why this issue is not higher on Heaven’s agenda?” Cas wondered. 

“Hannah Banana Fanna is probably too busy looking for more guys to stab.” Cas exhaled a soft laugh, and Dean looked over in surprise. “Hey, don’t tell me you actually got a joke?”

“The Name Game. It was a witty juxtaposition of a children’s song, as contrasted with the murderous intent of an angel of vengeance.”

“Wow. I didn’t know I was that deep.” Dean had maneuvered the car up a winding road towards a rather large house. “Wait, is this the place?”

Cas checked his phone. “This is the address my sister provided.”

Dean gave a low whistle. “This Patsy chick knows how to live,” he commented. He pulled up into the broad semi-circular driveway. The front of the house was bedecked with a row of tall white columns with flared volutes. “This looks more like the fucking Parthenon than somebody's house,” Dean muttered.

“The Parthenon has Doric columns,” Cas crisply informed him as they exited the car. Dean was going to make a snarky rejoinder but became distracted the sight of a partially dressed man who appeared to be collapsed over one of the hedges. Dean drew nearer, Cas following him. 

The man shivered and emitted a soft moan. “Does he require our assistance?” Cas inquired.

At this point, the man suddenly jerked up, aimed his bleary eyes at Cas and Dean, extolled, “Dude,” and then projectile vomited onto the walkway. Dean hopped back to avoid the splash. 

“Naw, I think he's fine,” said Dean, picking his way around the pool of yesterday's lunch as the man sagged back into the bush. This confused Cas, but he followed Dean along the walkway towards the massive domicile.

Dean paused on the porch. The door was ajar, and this aroused his suspicion. He pulled out his gun, and signaled for Cas to follow him. Cas manifested his angel blade and followed Dean into the house, silently resolving to push his human friend out of the way if they discovered anything untoward. He did not sense anything of a supernatural nature, and certainly no demons, but it always paid to be careful.

What they encountered inside was not in any way paranormal, but it was quite unusual, and a scene the likes of which Castiel hadn’t experienced in some centuries. The entryway matched the outside of the house for sheer size and splendor, with a twenty foot high ceilings, a huge marble staircase planted smack in the center: the kind Cas had seen dancers descend in human films from the early 20th century. There were no high-steppers in top hats here, however, but there were a number of human males, all well-muscled and wearing very few clothes. They were all either asleep or unconscious, draped over various expensive pieces of antique furniture. The room was littered with empty liquor bottles and drug paraphernalia, including a water pipe such as those used for ingestion of marijuana fumes. It had been fashioned in the shape of male genitals. There were several artworks showing photography of nude or nearly nude male subjects. 

Cas sensed a pattern.

“What're you doin'?” grunted one of the sleeping beings, who was lying spread-eagle on a black leather couch. He squinted up at them from over a small pool of drool. He was wearing a purple bathing suit and a green feather boa around his neck. “You got the pizza?”

“Looking for Patsy Stone. You seen her?” Dean asked.

“You're not the pizza guy?” the man slurred.

Dean evinced tightly controlled frustration. “No. We're not the pizza guy. We're looking for Patsy Stone.”

“I ordered pizza. Left beef,” Feather Boa Man muttered into a throw pillow. 

As Dean appeared to be readying himself to throw the said person across the room, Cas intervened. “Dean,” he said, pointing up the grand staircase. A woman wearing one impossibly high-heeled shoe and the remains of what looked a very pricey outfit consisting of at least seven different animal prints on viscose, was staggering her way downstairs, one hand gripping the bannister as well as a cigarette, the other hand twirling the other pump by its back strap.

“Darlings, is one of you a cobbler? I require assistance!” she slurred, pausing to take a deep drag of the cigarette, which was not, it should be noted, of a tobacco-containing nature. “Frightfully broken heel.”

“You Patsy Stone?” Dean called up.

She paused at the last landing, wobbling on her one shoe, took a very deep drag and inquired, “Who is asking, darling?”

“The pizza man!” blurted the couch-surfer, who immediately collapsed back into the couch. Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Ahhhh!” huffed the woman who may or may not have been Patsy Stone. She attempted to proceed down the grand staircase, but unfortunately, had run out of bannister to cling to, and ended up tripping over a trailing edge of some snow leopard-print rayon. She would have toppled down and potentially broken several bones and definitely caused further damage to her ensemble had Cas not stepped forward and caught her.

“Darling!” she cooed, now staring deeply into the angel’s eyes. She traced a well-manicured index finger along the side of Cas’s face. “My darling, you could cut glass with those cheekbones. Are you a model? You _must_ be a model!”

Cas tilted his head, and then coughed softly when the woman took another drag of the cigarette and puffed a waft of pungent smoke into his apparently chiseled features.

“Patsy Stone?” demanded Dean, whose eyes had now narrowed to annoyed slits.

She wriggled in Cas’s arms, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Yes of course. Who else would I be? Your eyes are a stunning shade of cerulean, dear,” she told Cas. “Do you curl your eyelashes?”

“Cas, put her down,” Dean ordered. Cas obeyed, setting Patsy gently to her feet, although she carefully maintained one long arm draped around his neck. 

“I’m accepting resumes for PAs you know,” she told Cas, putting a finger to the cleft in his chin. “And what do you keep in there?”

“What is a PA?” Cas asked.

“Nothing you need to know about,” Dean told him. “Now, Ms. Stone, we just came from an encounter with your former partner, Edina Monsoon.”

Patsy took another long drag of her cigarette. “Eddy? But she's dead now, isn't she? Unless you mean you had one of those dreadful visions. You're really not allowed to be high around here unless you've brought some to share with the class!”

“Miss Monsoon is a spirit entity,” said Cas.

“A ghost,” echoed Dean.

If Dean had expected a terrified reaction, he was very wrong. “A ghost? Oh, how terribly tacky of her!” huffed Patsy. She leaned even closer to Cas. “What was she wearing? Was it dreadful?”

“She was carrying a rather expensive Birkin bag,” Cas told her.

“You’re joking! Alligator?” asked Patsy. Cas nodded. “That bitch!”

“You’re not surprised that your ex-partner is currently haunting an exhibition of her collection?” Dean asked.

“That is sooooo Eddy,” sniffed Patsy. “She dropped dead quite suddenly, you know. Quite unexpectedly. It was during a Stones concert. Really, some people just can't quit re-living the Sixties. It upset Mick so!”

“I thought it was some kind of gardening accident?” asked Dean.

“Oh, may have been. I can’t keep track of these little details!”

“Miss Stone-“

“Oh, do call me Patsy my dear!” Patsy gushed as she toyed with Cas’s hair.

“All right, hands off the angel,” Dean interjected, grabbing one of Patsy’s scarves and giving it a yank. She reeled off of Cas and shot Dean a dirty look.

“Miss Stone,” Cas persisted. “Did your ex-partner, Miss Monsoon, by any chance practice an Eastern religion?”

“Oh, she practiced everything. Could never get it right! At the last she was following her Baba. I suppose that was Eastern. He lived in the suburbs.”

“Baba?” asked Dean.

“Oh, yes, Baba Bubba. He’s the one she willed the company to when she croaked.”

“Baba … Bubba?” asked Dean, his face trying to do about six different things at once. “And she gave her company to … her religious leader? Isn't that a little weird?”

“Well, I certainly didn't want anything to do with it,” Patsy snarked. “I left when it became apparent that they expected me to actually do work! Preposterous!”

Dean and Cas shared a glance. “Well, where can we find this Baba Bubba character? I wanna talk to him!”

 

“This is the forbidden storage room? It’s in Topeka?” Sam asked, wriggling around to find a more comfortable position, only to discover there really was none to be had. As he had been unwilling to drive Cas’s ridiculous Lincoln, he had gone along in the angels’ rental car, and the back seat was mighty uncomfortable for someone of his height. 

“It was a compromise,” Hannah, sitting in the front seat, admitted. 

“And this municipality has surprisingly friendly corporate taxation policies!” said Barachiel, who was sitting beside Sam. He was tall, like Sam, and equally cramped, but seemed appallingly blithe about the whole thing. 

Sam literally let out a sigh of relief when Pahaliah finally pulled up to the ugly warehouse that evidently housed the item in question. Sam questioned his own sanity in coming along on this stupid errand, but Hannah had made it sound like it would be some kind of quick deal. Anyway, the sooner he got it done, the sooner he could get back to his rubber duckie.

They piled out of the car, Sam stretching in earnest to attempt to return feeling to his lower limbs. “This is it?” he asked. They had parked in front of a nondescript warehouse among blocks of nondescript warehouses. “Why didn’t you guys just find a place for this Vault, you know, up there?” he asked, pointing in what he assumed was the direction of heaven.

“It’s … interdepartmental,” Hannah told him, not impressing Sam with her constant obfuscation. She disappeared through a nondescript door into the nondescript building, and Sam followed along with the other angels.

What he experienced inside the building was not at all what he had expected.

Sam actually had half a mind to go back out through the door, look around – like a cartoon character doing a classic Warners double-take – and then come back inside. The interior was much bigger than the warehouse could possibly have contained. It was in fact many orders of magnitude larger. 

And this was apparently just the waiting room area. The place seemed like some kind of cosmic DMV, but raised to the infinity power. It even had the reek of ammonia he expected from such institutional surroundings. 

The reception desk, which looked to be constructed of some wretchedly cheap pressed fiberboard material, stretched away out to the far horizon, appearing to follow the curvature of the earth as it disappeared into darkness at the far end. Everything was colored various shades of the same sort of institutional, lowest bidder baby-puke yellow, from walls to floors to row upon row upon row of plastic chairs.

As for the asses parked in the grubby plastic chairs, their owners were something to behold. There were a few individuals who might have been angels: they were dressed in cheap suits, and some nodded to Hannah and her party. But alongside them...

Just to his right, Sam spotted a group of Leprechauns, all busy counting gold coins. There was some kind of troll sitting next to them, occasionally tapping its huge club on the floor in impatience. Across from him sat a family of vampires – one of the older ones was giving a youngster a blood bag full of Type O. A guy sitting down from them appeared to be half snake, and there were a couple of centaurs as well, and fauns, and at least one unicorn. And was that a yeti over there?

Sam had to stop gaping when he felt a hand on his arm. Hannah leaned closer and whispered, “This is neutral ground. Do you understand?”

“No hunting,” chuckled Pahaliah. She snapped her gum (she had a habit of doing that) and Hannah glared at the both of them.

“How do we get into the stockpile?” Sam asked.

“You have to fill out the proper paperwork and then wait your turn,” Hannah told him.

There was a ticket machine set on a pole near the doorway. Barachiel started to pull off the next ticket. He pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled, until he had a full loop of paper. “Oh, good!” he said as he read the strip. “We have a number in the low trillions!”

“Uh, trillions?” asked Sam. Hannah pointed towards the counter, where a very, very, _very_ old man had just shuffled behind an antiquated microphone. He gave it a tap with a gnarled finger, and the PA system squalled with a piercing feedback noise. Those beings possessed of hearing within the normal range covered their ears.

The ancient man behind the counter cleared his throat, and then began hacking. Around the room, several nervous people and angels and ghosts and ghouls and secrets from the mummy’s tomb and other entities drew out their elongated paper tickets and waited.

The ancient man had ceased coughing and now took out a quill pen – yes an actual quill pen – and dipped it in an ink pot. The ink pot tipped over and the sticky, ecru ink began to pool on the countertop. As the crowd gathered in the waiting room attended in hushed silence, they began to use a variety of Kleenex and parchments and paper towels and blotter paper and somebody’s tie to sop it up. 

Then at length the old man was presented with a new pot of ink. And then, to Sam's distress, he began the entire process over: tapping the squalling microphone, clearing his throat, hacking phlegm, and then finally – finally – dunking the quill pen into the ink pot, and poising it over on the cracked, dusty volume opened on the counter.

“Is he ever gonna-” Barachiel whispered, but found himself gripped by the other angels – Pahaliah even slapped a well-manicured hand over his mouth. But it was too late. Sam saw that the aged clerk's rheumy eyes were now staring Barachiel down, and indeed, everyone in the waiting area was now stealing glimpses over at him, and they did not look at all kind. 

Sam held his breath. After a good bout of eyelock that would have made Dean and Cas take pause, the old clerk finally broke eye contact with Barachiel, cleared his throat, and began the entire ritual again. Once again, the huddled masses in the waiting area gripped their tickets. 

“Now … serving...,” the ancient man intoned. Everyone stared at their tickets.

“Number...” 

The clerk paused, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Three … trillion...”

Groups of vampires and werewolves and wendigos and ghouls and swamp creatures leaned forward.

“Four … hundred … twenty … two … million....”

Sam wanted to smash something. Anything. 

“Six … hundred … eight … thousand....”

The centaur looked ready to stampede.

“Seven … hundred...”

Sam gritted his teeth. Why had he given up his rubber duckier for this?

“Forty....”

You could have heard a pin drop. Only then the clerk would have probably gone back to the beginning again.

“Five.”

Suddenly, life and movement resumed, as slowly everyone in the waiting room realized with disgust that the clerk hadn't called their ticket number. 

There was a small cry from far along the line. Some fairies evidently had the correct number. They were fluttering towards the counter, the ticket trailing beneath them like a victory banner, catching the wind.

And then the centaur stomped on them.

Sam's hand found the back of Hannah's shirt, which he gave a yank. He about-faced and marched out of the waiting area, not stopping until he was once again out in the parking lot. He let out the breath he'd been holding, and closed his eyes to the bright sunshine.

He opened his eyes to see the angels were gathered around him, looking glum. He cast his eyes around the neighborhood, and spotted a laboratory supply place across the road.

“I have an idea,” he said.

 

“Baba Bubba,” Dean muttered. He was attempting to change out the cassette tape in the Impala's stereo and having little luck. His agitated state apparently made him clumsy. 

Cas closed a hand around his friend's wrist. His grip was gentle, but firm, and far too strong for the human to break out of. Cas grabbed the tape and flicked it into the deck. Dean shot him an annoyed glance, but also muttered, thanks.

“Dean, we are currently headed out to see Baba Bubba, the individual Miss Stone mentioned?”

“Yeah.”

“We risk the possibility of being late to meet my sister for dinner.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. Your loony sister. Text her my regrets.”

“Dean. She is reason I have embarked on this journey in the first place. I would like to stave off a potential conflict among my brothers and sisters. If it's the last thing-” He stopped himself. “I'm sorry. I meant to say, in my life, I've made mistakes-”

“Cas, you're not gonna die,” Dean told him. “So, quit it.”

This brought the angel up short. “Dean?”

“I said cut it out.” Dean glared at him, his eyes full of determination. “You told me Crowley got you some more angel juice, right? Well, now we got time. We'll just get to Metatron and squeeze your grace back out of him.”

“No deals!” Cas blurted. Dean shot a glance at him, so he continued, more softly, “I’ve made my deals with the devil, Dean. I’m finished with that.”

Dean was rolling his eyes. “Do I look like I'm talking about a deal? We'll stick his balls in a vice. Whatever.”

“Dean!” Cas wasn't certain if this was Dean's attempt at humor. He tended to use wit to defuse fearful situations. The mental image was.... Well, Cas had to admit, it was sort of funny, in a twisted way. He found himself making a small noise, more like a huff.

“Was that a laugh?” Dean asked. 

“I don't know,” said Cas. He thought it over. “I think so. Yes.”

“Ha! Not often I get a laugh from you.”

This made Cas smiled wider. And it also evidently made him bold. “Dean, that woman, Miss Stone?”

“Patsy,” Dean sighed.

“She was engaged in rather solicitous behavior....”

“She was flirting with you, Cas!”

“I am aware of that.”

“Oh.” Dean drove for a while in silence.

“What I meant to say was, you seem to have disapproved,” Cas ventured.

“Damn right I disapproved!”

“But I have seen you engage in this sort of behavior with human females on numerous occasions.”

“Um. Well. Yeah. But this was _you_ , Cas.” Dean got the weirdest expression. “It just wasn't.... It wasn't appropriate!”

“What wasn't appropriate?” came a voice from the back seat. Cas looked over his shoulder to behold his sister, the Archangel Raziel, now seated behind them. She had a small compact open and was checking the status of her mascara. 

“Dammit!” growled Dean. “I had almost got used to you guys not doing that any more!”

“This is definitely _not_ the quickest route to my cozy little dinner spot,” Raziel pouted, snapping the compact closed.

“Cozy little dinner's gonna wait, sister,” Dean told her. “We're takin' a detour.”

“Did you talk to Patsy?” she inquired.

“Yeah, we talked to Patsy. She's one whack job!”

Raziel smiled fondly. “Ah. Dear Patsy will never change.”

“She said Edina was following some quack named Baba Bubba. Ended up deeding her business to him.”

Raziel began digging in her purse. “Hrm. Never heard of him.”

“Well, we’re gonna go interrogate his ass. Right now.”

“Right now? I’m sorry, that’s out of the question. We’ll miss the Entity ready-to-wear show!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Look, lady, I don’t care about some fancy pants fashion. We got a job!”

Raziel raised a small, well-manicured hand. “Wait a moment, it’s a text from my babysitter.”

“More flying babies on the loose?” Dean snarked, glaring at the road.

“Something’s wrong with our Tree of Life.”

“So call a gardener.”

“Dean,” said Cas, who was looking concerned. “It is not so much a tree as an inter-dimensional portal. The Tree of Life is a connection between worlds. This is potentially quite serious.”

“I’ll say!” said Raziel, tossing her phone back into her purse. “My husband will be utterly murderous if he comes back from his wild hunt to find the tree is damaged. He's so sentimental about that tree.” She looked around. “Now, the show is here,” she said, snapping her fingers.

Dean gasped as suddenly the road whirled away. 

They came to rest in a parking lot somewhere. “What the hell did you do to my car?” Dean demanded.

“The Entity fashion show is here,” said Raziel. “I need to pop back and see about my tree, so you’ll have to do this alone. Let me take a look at you,” she said, snapping her fingers again. They were now all standing up outside the car.

“Will you quit doing that snapping deal? It plays hell on my intestines,” Dean protested.

“This won’t do! This won’t do at all!” Raziel said, ignoring Dean to give Cas the once over. She began tugging off his trench coat. “Oh, darling! That suit! It’s a pity I don’t have time to get you something fitted. We’ll have to buck up and tolerate something off the rack I suppose Now, try this.” With another finger snap, Cas was now in a different dark suit. This one, however, unlike anything Dean had ever seen Cas wear, was quite well fitted. 

“Well, it will have to do,” Raziel sighed, fussing with the knot in Cas’s tie. “Now, you,” she said, turning to Dean. “Didn’t anyone tell you the grunge look just isn’t old enough to be nostalgic?” she asked, regarding the abundant plaid. “Well, that is if you’re not Chris Cornell. That man could get away with _anything_!” 

“Do not snap me!” warned Dean, just as Raziel snapped her fingers. He was suddenly wearing tight black jeans and a well-fitted button down. 

“You’re lucky you’re so darling, you can get away with being the slob,” Raziel told him.

“I’m not the slob,” Dean grumbled, tugging at his skinny jeans.

Raziel, ignoring him, was digging in her handbag. “Now,” she told Cas, “I’ll give you my backstage pass.” She went up on tiptoe and placed a lanyard around his neck. Cas straightened up and took a look an admiring look at the lanyard, as if he had just been knighted.

“Where’s _my_ pass?” Dean complained.

“I only have one.”

Dean quite suddenly appeared at least 200 percent done. “OK, hang on, lady. You can take my car flying through space, and change our clothes, but you can’t snap your fingers and get another damn pass?”

Raziel raised an eyebrow and huffed in an offended manner. “Do you think I’m some kind of miracle worker? Even _I_ can’t get another backstage pass to an Entity show! Now, I must dash!”

And then, with a whisper of wings, she was gone.

“Aw, crap,” muttered Dean. “You and your relatives,” he told Cas. 

“I am concerned regarding the Tree of Life, Dean.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Probably her daffy kid was teething on it or something.” Dean looked at himself, and then looked around. He then approached Cas and fussed with the knot on his tie. “Anyway, I guess we’re here now. You wanna nose around?”

“We have only one badge, Dean.”

Dean smiled indulgently. “Well yeah, but there’s no place one earth a Winchester can’t sneak into.”

“I am not a Winchester,” Cas told him.

Dean finished whatever he was doing to the tie and gave it a pat. “Hell! Sure you are. Or the closest thing. You’re Castiel Winchester.”

“I am?” asked Cas, his eyes suddenly gone wide.

“Yeah. Now come on. We gotta go check out these fashionistas.”

 

Sam puffed up. He had this nailed. 

Well, he had to believe he had this nailed. That was part of it.

What had their dad always told them? A lab coat, a clip board, and an attitude will get you any old where. After a quick trip to the laboratory supply place, Sam had two of the three.

Ditching the angels would give him the third. Although this was proving to be tricky. 

“I’ll be fine. You guys just wait here. I’ll be back out in a minute.”

“I’m not sure, Sam,” said Hannah. 

“I’ll just talk my way into the back, and then look for the horn.”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, I got my cell phone.”

“Not sure there’s reception,” said Pahaliah, grinning one of her saucy, definitely non-angelic, grins.

“And I’m not sure the laws of time and space apply,” Barachiel added.

Sam looked around at the faces of the angels. “Like I said, this will be quick, and if it’s not, you know where I am.”

“Well. More or less,” said Barachiel.

Sam decided that this was not doing him any good. Stuffing down the butterflies that had come unbidden to his stomach, he nodded curtly at his angel companions, turned on his heel, and charged into the warehouse, where he marched directly up to the counter without bothering to stop and take a ticket. 

There was a little mechanical bell on the desk, so he rang it, and then went back to pretending to look at his clipboard. 

A bored clerk appeared. “Do you have a ticket?” he demanded.

“County inspector,” said Sam, quickly flashing his bikini inspector badge at the blinking clerk. “I’m on a schedule here,” Sam added, tapping his watch.

“Inspection?” asked the clerk, who beckoned another clerk. 

“What inspection?” asked the second clerk.

Sam clucked his tongue. “You never filed your form 1138-slash-ESB with the county.”

“What?” asked yet a third clerk. They were now gathering like flies on shit.

“Weren’t you supposed to file the 1138-slash-ESB?” said the first.

“It’s not my job,” said another. There were now at least half a dozen clerks, all peeking at Sam and whispering amongst themselves.

Sam tapped his clipboard. “Time is money!” he supplied, which threw them into another frenzy. 

Finally, an elderly clerk came forward. “Well, why don’t you just … conduct the inspection then?”

“Sounds good!” said Sam cheerily. He bustled over to where the counter was broken by a flap and waited, humming softly. After a round of looking at one another, finally one clerk – a man as pale as paper – pulled up the hinged flap and Sam passed through. The clerk bit his lip, and then led Sam to a door with a clouded window upon which OFFICIAL BUSINESS ONLY had been stenciled. 

Another clerk brought out a ring of keys. After clinking and clanking through them for a bit, he evidently found the right one, and inserted it into the lock. 

The door creaked open, with a sound that beckoned for some WD-40, and then the pale clerk passed through.

Sam passed after him.

And then the bottom dropped out.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no place on earth beyond the awesome power of a Winchester to sneak into.

Except perhaps a fashion show for the red hot label, Entity.

Even with Cas wielding Raziel’s backstage pass, he and Dean had been sent around to three different doors so far by various larger and larger and increasingly skeptical-looking bouncers. 

Finally, they arrived in the very back, standing before the beefiest and most disapproving bouncer of them all. He scrutinized Cas’s badge as if it were the Dead Sea Scrolls. At length, he dropped the badge and looked Cas up and down, and then gave the same treatment to Dean. “You’re here for the show?” he asked them.

“Yes. I am Castiel Winchester,” said Cas without skipping a beat. Dean was impressed. And even more impressed when Cas suddenly caught up Dean’s hand and entwined it with his own. “And this is my life partner, Dean,” he said, his eyes suddenly taking on a soft edge.

It took Dean a second, but he fell in line. “Uh, yeah!”

“And he doesn't have a pass?” ventured the guard, his eyes narrowing to skeptical slits.

“We are seeking fashion forward garments for our upcoming commitment ceremony,” Cas intoned, his blue eyes flush with the light of false sincerity.

There was a pause. The bouncer looked around, his brow furrowed as if in concentration. And then he leaned closer. “I’m not supposed to do this but…” He inclined his head towards the door. “Go talk to Jim. I think he’ll like you guys.”

Cas nodded and, clutching Dean’s hand, dragged him inside. 

The door closed behind him, Dean exhaled the breath he had been holding. “Damn, Cas!” he said, genuinely impressed.

“As you taught me: when humans want something, they lie,” Cas told him calmly. He let Dean's hand drop. Dean hadn't really realized that they were still holding hands. “Now, where would you suggest we start?”

“Oh! Are you the happy couple?” came a voice. A grey-haired, perfectly coiffed man was rushing towards them. Cas raised an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah!” said Dean, awkwardly taking up Cas's hand again. “Yeah, we're, uh, committed life partners. And stuff.”

“Well aren't you adorable?” said the man, smiling warmly. 

Now that Dean had a good look at him, he seemed familiar. “Aren't you-”

The man puffed up with the pleasure of an outed celebrity. “Yes, I'm Jim Carbyne.”

“From _Operation: Catwalk_!” Dean supplied as Cas did a very small but recognizable double-take at his friend.

“We’re doing a little TV special on the Entity line.”

“I am Castiel and this is my partner, Dean Winchester,” stated Cas.

“Winchester!” gushed Carbyne. “Isn't that a coincidence? We're all named after firearms! Come right this way!” He threaded a hand in Cas’s elbow and yanked him off down the corridor. 

Dean stood for a moment, psyching himself up. “OK. High fashion. Eh.” And then he took off after his life partner.

 

Sam Winchester, in his young life, had been to heaven, hell, and purgatory.

None of this had prepared him for the Vault of Embargoed Relics, Blessed Objects and Tenebrous and Egregious Notions.

He wasn’t certain at the moment where he was. Or when he was. Or _what_ he was.

Thinking back, perhaps he may have paid more attention to Hannah when she had tried to warn him.

It was somewhat reminiscent of the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Perhaps if that film had been filmed in 3D, and then projected in a holographic display while one was riding a roller coaster?

There were racks packed with boxes. That much was clear. There were aisles between the racks. The aisles went off in all directions: left and right and straight ahead.

And up and down.

And sideways and under and over.

And something that seemed like it was going through Sam’s midsection.

He stifled a small dry heave.

“Are you coming?” asked the pale clerk. There he was, standing off … in some direction. 

Clutching his clipboard, Sam attempted to follow him.

 

Dean had to admit, Jim Carbyne knew his shit. He had shown Dean a couple of monkey suits and, to be honest, they weren’t at all bad. Well, for monkey suits.

“We’re trying to promote a line for the average man, you know,” he was chattering as he went through another rack. “It’s very important to me that clothes are worn, and not just designed for runway models. But you must have done some modeling, mustn’t you?”

Dean looked up, suddenly realizing that Carbyne was addressing him. “Uh, no. No, I haven’t.”

“Seriously?” asked Jim, who was paused as he held up a couple of suits. He looked over to Cas for confirmation. Cas nodded. “Dean, I could get you the name of an agent. Really, with those dimples and those eyelashes!” He turned back to Cas. “I’d be doing a service to humanity!” he told the angel. “Now, I do like how this plays off your eyes,” he added, holding up one of the suits to Cas.

“What about that over there?” Cas asked, pointing to a rack that had been pushed along the back wall. “The fabric….”

“Oh, good eye!” said Jim, replacing the suits and going over to paw the rack Cas had indicated. “These are very exclusive, using the Entity artisanal textiles.”

“Uh, ‘artisanal textiles?’” said Dean. “Sorry-“

“Well, it’s there term,” fussed Tim, fishing out a suit. “These are very, very limited. Three Sisters Fabrics is what they’re calling them. From an overseas supply house. Really exquisite. Give it a feel.”

Cas carefully laid a hand on the fabric, flashing a significant glance over at Dean. Dean shrugged his shoulders and took another glance in the mirror at the suit jacket Jim had given him. It did fit quite nicely, he had to admit.

An aide wearing a headset appeared at the door. “Mr. Carbyne? May we get your opinion on something?”

Jim nodded to Dean and Cas and then let his assistant whisk him away. 

“Dean-“ said Cas, who was still tracing his hands over the fabric.

“Looks like nice stuff, Cas,” said Dean, who drew nearer. “But we’re really not getting anywhere. Besides, who gives a fuck what you’re wearing? You’re still _you_ , you know?”

“Thank you, Dean,” said Cas as he held up a sleeve. “But, this fabric? It wasn’t made by human hands.”

Dean reluctantly tore his gaze away from the full length mirror. “Uh, then what? Flying monkeys?”

“Supernatural entities. Goddesses, I believe. I’ve seen its like, once before. But it is puzzling all the same.”

“I’ll say! You got goddesses whipping up suits for commitment ceremonies now? That’s weird.” Dean’s face suddenly grew exasperated. “Hey, please tell me it’s not that spider chick! I’m really not in the mood.”

There was the sound of low voices out in the corridor. Dean and Cas both turned towards the door, expecting it to be Jim Carbyne returning, but instead it was three men, all wearing dark suits. One of them glanced into the room.

Cas's eyes grew big. And then, all of a sudden, he grabbed Dean and swung him around towards the wall. Dean was going to say something, but then Cas's hand was in his hair, and Cas's lips were pressing onto his lips.

Cas was kissing him.

He was being kissed by Cas.

Cas and he … 

Kiss.

And stuff.

And then they weren't kissing any more. Cas still had a hand on his arm, but the angel was scanning the corridor.

“Cas-”

“Dean,” Cas whispered. “Please excuse me. Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable! I learned this in a movie. Well, I mean, Metatron did. This sometimes gets quite confusing I'm afraid.” Cas sort of trailed off. His face was still very close. 

Dean tried to shake off yet another Cas faux pas. It wasn't easy. “I get the reference. And, uh, why are we making people uncomfortable?”

Cas, thankfully, took a step back. He poked his head out the door and scanned up and down the corridor. “Those people – they were not _people_.”

“No? Suit-making gods? Unicorns?”

“Angels.”

“Fuck! Did you recognize them?”

“Yes. And I believe they were among the followers of Metatron.”

 

“Where did you wish to begin?” the pale clerk asked Sam. He had been following the ghostly man quietly for a few moments, madly pinching the webbing of his hand between thumb and index figure – he had read somewhere that this was supposed to stave off nausea. 

“Just go through your process,” Sam told him, trying to sound confident, and wishing he hadn't had those eggs over easy for breakfast. All he could picture in his mind was runny yolks. Runny yellow yolks…. No, think of something else! “Let's say you wanted to find an item,” he said, interrupting his own wandering mind. “Step me through how you'd go about finding it.”

The clerk stared at him with his odd, almost violet eyes. “What is it that you wish to find?” he asked, pushing his glasses back up on his face.

Sam wondered whether the clerk was an angel. He couldn't remember an angel wearing eyeglasses, and these were big, plastic purple eyeglasses. “Um, let's say you wanted to find … Gabriel's horn,” he said, trying his very best to be casual.

The pale eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to find that ancient relic? Why not some nice orange juice? That would be refreshing!”

“Um,” said Sam, who was feeling less and less confident by the minute. “Humor me?”

“All right then. We will need to begin at the card catalog. That is, if the _spiders_ haven't gotten to it again. It should be right over here. Now, that doesn't mean it will be over here. It does tend to wander off if it's bored. Or peeved.”

“Um,” said Sam, striving to keep apace of this increasingly odd conversation, “why would a card catalog get peeved?”

“Well, when it doesn't get its orange juice!” said the pale clerk. “The card catalog doesn't like it too pulpy by the way.”

“I'll remember that,” said Sam.

“See that you do. Ah, there we are!”

As the clerk was staring just over Sam's shoulder, Sam turned around, and there, right in back of him, loomed the largest old fashioned wooden card catalog he had ever seen. Sam was by no means a short individual, and yet it towered above him. 

He took a long step back. “Uh. That's very impressive.”

The clerk put a finger to his lips. “Hrm. I don't see any of the spiders around today. That's odd.” He tentatively put a hand out to grip the curved handle on one of the drawers, giving it a little tug. He cringed – as did Sam – when it jerked open, but then looked around in a puzzled manner when nothing eight-legged crawled out. “Well. I guess they're elsewhere. That's the thing about spiders: they're always _somewhere_.”

“Uh, I guess so,” Sam found himself agreeing.

“Now,” said the clerk, who himself took a step forward. “The Horn of Gabriel. Where would that be filed?”

“Uh, G? Or maybe H?” Sam ventured. It had been a long time since he’d had to look up anything in a real card catalog.

“Or A for Archangel, B for Brass, C for Celestial....” hummed the clerk, pulling out, at random it seemed, one of the card drawers. The drawer kept extending and extending and extending until the clerk had walked out a good twenty feet.

“So it could be … anywhere?” Sam asked.

“Of course not!” the clerk thundered back to him. For such a slender man he had an uncharacteristically sonorous voice. “This is no Schrödinger’s Cat (which is filed under I.P. for Improbable Feline by the way). The Horn of Gabriel is filed precisely one place, and that is where it is!”

“I don't suppose there's a-”

“A what?”

“A somewhat quicker way to do this?” From the look on the pale clerk's face, Sam knew not to pursue this line of inquiry any more. He contented himself with pretending to check things on the clipboard while the clerk continued to rifle through the long card drawer. 

Sam noticed he was feeling a smidgen less disoriented as he spent more time here. He wasn't exactly certain this was a good thing, but it was nice to not feel like his breakfast was going to come back up at any moment.

He scanned around the room. It reminded him of those drawings of a hypercube he had used to doodle as a kid. Only a hypercube superimposed over a Costco warehouse. He looked up, or in the direction he used to consider up.

“Um,” he asked the clerk. “What about there?”

“What about where?” hummed the clerk.

“Up there?” 

“What is up there?”

Sam pointed. “Up in that cardboard carton labeled, 'Gabriel's Horn?'”

 

“Cas, we need to talk.” Dean had the bottom trunk of the Impala open and was digging through the armaments. He discarded some brass knuckles and held up a flask of holy water, shaking it out.

“Yes. I enjoy our talks, Dean,” said Cas.

“Uh, about the whole … uh, _thing_ that happened. Back there. I mean, um. In the dressing room. When you were, uh, trying to distract people. I mean….”

“When I pretended to kiss you, Dean?”

Dean picked up a wooden stake, flicked at the end, and then put it back down. “That was pretend? Geez.”

“You don’t need to worry. I realize that you identify as heterosexual.”

“OK, great.” Dean twirled a silver knife. “No, wait! What do you mean I _identify_?”

“You expressly engage in sexual contact with females. Or those you perceive as female.”

“Those I _perceive_ …? Wait, what….” Talking about stuff inevitably reminded Dean of why he hated talking about stuff. “OK, I’m not gonna go there. But, you don’t … _identify_?”

Cas did the head tilt thing. “I experience these kinds of things differently as a celestial being. I do recall when I was a human….”

“Yeah? You were with that reaper chick!” Solid ground again. Dean rejoiced! Yes, April. I bit stabbity, but cute.

“Yes. But I could potentially have consummated a sexual act with a male as well.”

This threw Dean for a loop. “You swing both ways?” Dean asked, suddenly aware that his voice had jumped up an octave or two. He tried to school himself. “I mean, no kidding?”

“Is it terribly important to discuss this now, Dean? You seem … unnerved.”

“No it’s just….”

“Do you harbor prejudices concerning sexual orientation?”

“No no no! It’s not that!” Dean slammed the trunk. “I mean, uh. You’re my friend – maybe my best friend, - and I didn’t even know that about you.” He turned back to the trunk and popped it back open again, his mind racing. Wait, did he agree with what he just said? Was this really OK? Cas with guys? 

Dean fiddled with a shotgun. No, he realized, he was cool with Cas with guys. It actually made a weird kind of sense. Cas liked girls and Cas liked guys. It was like this information filled in a missing piece. His nerdy little angel – well, good for him! He could picture Cas with a girl, or Cas with a guy, Cas kissing a guy, getting all close….

OK, wait, maybe not a good direction for the brain to go. Stop it, brain!

“Dude, it’s cool. You’re my friend. I’ll even come to your big gay angel wedding!” Dean grinned and gripped Cas’s shoulder.

Cas smiled, though he looked slightly confused. Dean’s favorite Cas expression. “That is kind of you, Dean.”

“Just, dude, after all of this is over, we sit down, we get a beer, and we talk about this!”

“But I thought you disliked talking over feelings, Dean?”

Dean considered this. “Hey, yeah, you’re right! What about, we get a beer, and we work on the car? I mean, you’re driving now, you should know something about a damn car!”

“That would be good, Dean,” the angel agreed.

Dean started rummaging around in the trunk again. Yeah, that would be cool! Two buddies, out shooting the shit, working on baby. Maybe Cas wouldn’t understand something, and Dean could give him a hand. He thought about Cas bending over the Impala, and then thought maybe he shouldn’t be thinking of Cas bending over the Impala. “It’s just, you know, if my dad had seen me back there….” Dean wasn’t quite certain why that thought had suddenly popped into his brain and then drizzled out of his mouth, but there it was. He hadn’t really thought about John Winchester for a while.

“I apologize for causing you discomfort,” Cas was saying. “I thought I had a deeper grasp of the human experience, but I still obviously have much to learn.”

Dean smiled. “It’s nothing Cas. And you’re…. I mean, for the record, you’re a really good kisser.” Wait, had he really said that? 

Now Cas was the one taken aback. “Really?”

“Damn. I mean, if I was a girl … which I’m _not_ … or you know, even a guy … who kissed guys….”

“You kiss guys? Damn, son, can I get video?”

Dean flinched. The archangel Raziel was now standing at his side, well-plucked eyebrow arched. “Quit … doing that!”

“Why are you talking about kissing guys?” she asked.

“Dean was inquiring about this topic after I kissed him,” Cas told her.

“No, Cas,” Dean moaned.

“You kissed Dean?” Raziel blurted.

“It was in the line of duty,” Cas reported primly.

“Raz, drop it,” said Dean.

But now she was peering into the trunk. “And why do you have the Scissors of Fate?” she asked.

“The what?”

Raziel held up the sword Dean had grabbed from the exhibition. For whatever reason, he had ended up taking it along with them when they ran outside, and it had gotten tossed in the trunk with the rest of his supplies. “These are the scissors Atropos – one of the three Fates – uses to cut the life threads. Why do you have it in your trunk?”

“Hey, angel chick,” said Dean, who was rolling his eyes. “That's not scissors. Duh.”

She leaned in towards Dean. “Well, not on this plane of existence, duh!”

Dean crowded her back. “Well what plane of existence is it supposed to be flying on? Double duh!”

Raziel glared at Dean and Dean glared back.

Raziel snapped her fingers. 

The earth spun on its axis.

And the three of them were now seated at the table outside a little cafe near the seaside. Raziel snapped her fingers one more time. A waiter arrived, and while Dean looked around, still dazed, Raziel had a rapid conversation with him in colloquial Italian. 

The waiter sauntered off. “What the fuck?” sputtered Dean. “Where the fuck are we? I mean … fuck!”

“Sicily. Duh,” snorted Raziel, placing her sunglasses atop her head in order to scan the laminated menu card. The Impala was nowhere in sight, but the sword that she claimed was really scissors was now lying across the table. 

Cas grabbed the handle. It felt smooth in his hand. “Yes. I should have recognized this from the start! My sight … has grown dim.”

“Well, I'm not surprised, little brother. Your grace is in a terrible shape!” Raziel clucked her tongue. “You should be home, letting your boyfriend pamper you.”

“Dean gave me Nyquil!” Cas announced proudly. “Oh, um.” A hot sensation suddenly flashed across his cheeks. He leaned over closer to Raziel. “In this universe,” he confided, “Dean and I are not....”

“You're NOT?” asked Raziel, who looked scandalized. “But why were you kissing?”

“That was in the line of duty!”

She shot a glare at Dean. “Well! No accounting for the human male tendency to be thick-headed, is there?” 

“Cas and I aren't what?” asked Dean.

“You know damned well,” sighed Raziel.

“Dean, this makes sense!” said Cas, setting the blade back on the table. “Recall that when you assaulted the ghost of Edina Monsoon with this blade-“

“She blinked out. Immediately!” said Dean.

The waiter brought along three small glasses and a bottle of red wine. The waiter uncorked the bottle with a flourish and poured a round. Raising her glass, Raziel declared, “ _Cin cin_!” and they all drank, Dean nearly throwing down the whole glass in the first guzzle.

The flavor reminded Cas something of licorice. He remembered the candy from back when he was fully human, and could still perceive the flavor or human food.

The spot was very peaceful. There were few other customers seated around the cafe, and those people paid little attention to them. There was a soft breeze blowing, and the sound of birds calling in the distance, and slowly lapping waves. 

“And why exactly are we in Sicily, Raz?” asked Dean, who had become marginally less irritated after a good sized slug of the wine. 

“The pizza is good here.” Raziel picked up the bottle and refilled Dean's glass. 

“What is it with you guys and pizza, anyway?” asked Dean.

“What guys?” said Raziel.

“Raziel,” interjected Cas, who was growing impatient with all the bickering. “I believe that the Entity brand is using fabric constructed by the three Fate sisters.”

Raziel blinked at him. “And Eddy somehow got hold of Atropos's scissors? That is weird as fuck.”

“Great. Glad we have an archangel here to explain stuff,” snarked Dean, who was still guzzling wine.

“So that's what you discovered when you were snooping around?” Raziel asked Cas. “Oh, and what did you think about the Entity men's ready-to-wear line? They say it's very important!”

“That's where we discovered the fabric,” said Cas. “Mr. Carbyne let Dean try on a very nice jacket. And we saw the angels.”

“Metatron's angels,” said Dean.

Raziel raised her eyebrows, but just then the waiter arrived again, bearing a rather large pizza, and they spent a moment dispensing greasy slices to all, Raziel forcing a particularly large slice onto Cas.

“By the way,” she asked, “what's the gossip on Metatron? What has that little weasel been up to lately?”

“You didn't hear?” Dean asked, exchanging a quick glance with Cas. 

“I try to stay out of the loop on heaven these days,” Raziel sighed. “Besides, I have toddlers to deal with!”

“Yeah, we know. And a flying baby!” 

“I know there was something big,” Raziel continued. “That one night the wolves wouldn’t stop howling! I heard there was some kind of brouhaha?”

“Metatron booted all the angels out of heaven and locked the door behind them.” 

“It was my fault,” moped Cas.

“No, it wasn't,” Dean told him. “Metatron's a douche. You got taken in.”

“Uh-huh. Metatron's picture is listed in the dictionary under 'douche,'” said Raziel with a nod.

Dean wiped the pizza grease from his hands on a paper napkin. “You didn't like the guy, Raz?”

“Oh, hell no! Always kissing ass with our Father, trying to curry favor. He got my old job as the scribe of heaven, you know? But he was kowtowing forever before that.” She began imitating Metatron's annoying voice. “‘Oh, Father, you don't want an _archangel_ at this job! They don't take very good shorthand!’ Well, fuck no! I was a warrior! Little toad.” She poured out another round of the wine, which emptied the bottle. Raziel signaled the waiter for another.

“Well, they got him locked away now,” Dean told her.

“Perhaps he did you all a favor, little brother,” she told Cas. “Heaven is terribly overrated. And they don't have pizza.” 

“Pizza fucking rocks,” said Dean, holding his glass up to the waiter for another round. 

“Raziel, didn't you say there was a problem with your Tree of Life?” asked Castiel.

“Yeah, damnedest thing. My twins found it when they were looking for their little brother. Someone had cut a sprig off the branches that grow between Midgard and the Asgard.”

“Uh, you live in an Avengers movie?” asked Dean.

Castiel stared at the Scissors of Fate. There was something nagging at him now. “It had been deliberately cut, you said?” he asked Raziel distractedly.

“Um-hum,” she muttered. She was now peering at him curiously.

Cas turned to his friend. “Dean, the Tree of Life is a sort of … I suppose you could liken it to a ladder. Many human myths and legends have done so. It is a link or portal between realms. The part that was damaged -”

“Stolen!” Raziel insisted.

“Served as a link – a kind of gateway – between heaven and this realm, earth.”

“Wait a minute!” said Dean, gesturing with his wine glass. “I thought your buddy, Metatron, sealed up all the doors between here and heaven with that spell?”

“Oh, he's smart as well as pretty. I see why you put up with his bullshit,” Raziel commented as Dean, who was helping himself to more wine, grinned and rolled his eyes.

“The universe is complicated, Dean,” Cas explained as Raziel forced another slice of pizza onto his plate. He reluctantly bit into it, and realized that he was now human enough to experience tastes again. It should have increased his melancholy, as it meant his new grace was waning quickly. But somehow, with Dean smiling at him, slightly inebriated as he was, it was pleasant.

“Yeah, I get it. The world is complicated,” smacked Dean around a mouthful of pizza. 

“There are other connections between realms, Dean,” Cas explained. “It's just, not all of them are available to us.”

“To angels, you mean?” asked Dean, eyeing both of them. “I thought you guys were the big fish?”

“It's a bit of a cosmic clusterfuck, really!” said Raziel. “It all started when our Father got to tinkering and invented _you_. Men went on and created their own gods, and it really mucked up the organization. So it's all really a big patchwork.”

“The universe is duct tape and string and chewing gum?” asked Dean. 

“Yep. Well, they only had seven days, and went with the lowest bidder,” said Raziel, who picked a pepperoni off the pizza and popped it in her mouth. 

Dean stared at her for a moment, and then barked with laughter. She refilled her own glass, and then his. 

“So, for example, the end of life,” Raziel continued. “Death sends in one of his Reapers to collect the soul, but it's Atropos who cuts the thread. Interdepartmental. Tons of red tape. It's a miracle anything ever gets done! And if it's not done properly, well, you can have people popping back.”

Dean and Cas suddenly looked up from their pizza and then stared at each other. “Holy shit,” said Dean finally. “We're only here because somebody didn't fill out a form in triplicate?” Cas shrugged, looking bemused, but suddenly Dean lurched over and slung an arm over the angel's shoulders. “Thank god for the bureaucrats, huh, buddy?”

Cas blushed beet red. “Um. I am a bureaucratic error?”

“You've died?” asked Raziel.

“We both have. It's a long story.”

“I guess it'll have to wait until next time!” said Raziel, glancing at her wristwatch. She held up the platter containing the last slice. Never one to turn down a good pie, Dean shrugged and helped himself to it. 

“Now, I suppose I should get this back to the Fates,” said Raziel, hefting the blade. She stood and began to swing it around like a pro. “You don't wanna piss off those girls.”

“Nope,” said Dean, but he was distracted from savoring his last bit of pizza when the sword in Raziel's hands suddenly lit up like a torch. And then he was even more distracted when she swung it at the table, neatly slicing the erstwhile wine bottle in two. “Fuck me,” he whispered.

“Damn. Magical blades are the shit!” said Raziel approvingly, powering down the flaming sword. “All right, so I'll take care of the Fates, you go check out this Baba Bubba person.”

“That's what we were going to do when-” Dean began, but Raziel snapped her fingers. Dean’s stomach, which was full of wine and pizza, lurched, and he looked around. They had now landed near the Impala, and it appeared they were back in San Claretian. 

“All right, report back to me in the next hour or so,” ordered Raziel. “I really can’t be expected to do everything around here.”

Dean started to retort, but evidently thought the better of it. “Oh, shit, I should have Sammy look him up beforehand. Hey! I wonder why he didn't call?” He dug out his cell phone, and then swore. “Dammit, battery's dead.”

“Use mine, I've got a great rate on trans-dimensional phone calls!” Raziel told him, lobbing her phone to Cas. “I’ll have to be off the grid for a while anyway. Crappy cell reception where the muses live, unfortunately. I must get the husband to talk to them about putting in a cell tower. Anyways, I’ll see you in two shakes.” And with that, with a whisper of wings, she was off. 

“You know Sam's number?” asked Dean, but Cas was already dialing it. 

“Sam?” said Cas. But then he frowned. “It's going straight to voice mail,” he told Dean.

“Ha! Probably still in the tub. He doesn’t think I know about the bubble baths. He's such a _girl_ sometimes.”

“Dean and I are awaiting your call, Sam. We are using my sister's cell phone, so please call back at this number.” Castiel hung up, and then stared at phone's lighted screen. His eyes grew big. “Dean,” he whispered.

“What?”

Cas shook his head and showed the phone to Dean. Dean scowled at the screen. “Wait, he’s still alive?”

“A- Apparently. He’s on her speed dial!” 

Cas and Dean then proceeded to engage for a bit in one of their epic staring matches.

 

Angels gathered in a parking lot in the warehouse district.

They were eating soft ice cream.

“The ripple is good,” said Pahaliah.

“Yeah, it's pretty good,” Barachiel agreed.

Hannah didn't care for ice cream, didn't want to talk about the fudge ripple, didn't know why Sam Winchester was taking so damned long, and didn't want to think about her life.

And then her cell phone rang.

She glared at the screen, tossed the rest of her cone into an already overstuffed trash can, and took a few steps away from Pahaliah and Barachiel before she picked up. “Yes?”

She listened to the idiotic Cherub, third class, at the other end for a few moments. “Wait a minute,” she snapped. “How could he not be in his cell?”

Suddenly, Pahaliah and Barachiel were nearby, staring at her. She noticed Barachiel had a trail of fudge ripple dripping down his chin. She fished a crumpled Kleenex out of her pocket and wiped his chin. “He was locked in there!” she protested. “Well, how long has he been gone?” She shook her head in frustration. “Yes, yes, I'll be back there as soon as I can!”

She hung up the phone.

And then she tossed it into the trash can, along with the fudge ripple.

“Fuck my life,” said Hannah.

Pahaliah and Barachiel looked at each other. And grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

_Many many many_ many _years ago…._

The northern sun slanted low in the summer sky. 

A small, dark-haired woman pulled a deck chair into the sunny part of a wooden porch. She smoothed a bright towel over the chair, lay down on it, and opened one of a pile of scrolls she had set down beside her on the deck. She studied the scroll for a while. “I swear, Cleopatra, you’re expecting to become Empress of Rome while wearing _that_!”

There was a whisper of wings, and a short, fair-haired man appeared beside her, his eyes the color of golden honey. “Hey, sis!”

“What do you want, Gabriel?” Raziel asked, not bothering to tear her dark eyes from the scroll.

“Hey, can’t I spend some time hanging out with my favorite big sister?” asked Gabriel. He pulled up another chair and sat down beside her. 

“Last I checked I was your _only_ big sister. Now, what do you want?”

“What is that you’re not wearing, by the way?” he asked, waving a hand at her.

Raziel sighed and finally looked up at her brother. “At some point, this garment will be termed a ‘bikini.’ You are interrupting my tanning session. The solstice doesn’t last long up here!”

“Why did you take over such a pale vessel if you wanted to tan?”

“This isn’t a vessel! This is me!”

“Geez, Daddy made you your own body? Spoiled much?”

Raziel finally glanced up. “ _I_ made my own body. Our Father had nothing to do with it. Just as I have nothing to do with Him. Now, before I get out my flaming sword, what the hell are you doing here?”

Gabriel looked around and then pulled his chair closer. “Look, I’m kind of on the lam right now, and I need a safe house.”

“Oh, good grief. It’s this Lucifer business, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you know Lucy never got along with Big Mikey.”

“You didn’t have to follow him around like a sad puppy.”

“Look, you gotta help me! You of all people should be sympathetic. I just need to get outta there, maybe take on a new identity. Like you did!”

Raziel put down the scroll and crossed her arms. “As it happens, I am welcomed here because I am currently sleeping with the management. Is that what you want?”

“Uhhh. I dunno. Is he good lookin’?”

At that moment, a tall, broad-shouldered and, admittedly, rather handsome guy wearing an eye patch sauntered up to the porch, bearing a huge saddle over one shoulder. “Raz, have you seen my saddle soap? Well, hello there,” he said, spotting Gabriel.

“Odin, this is my brother,” Raziel grumbled.

Odin stuck out a big hand. “Well, it’s great to finally meet a member of Raz’s family!”

Gabriel was up on his feet. “Glad to meetcha,” he said, eagerly shaking hands.

“Now tell me,” asked the Norse god, putting down his saddle, “are you the horrible one, or the creepy one?”

“Uhhh, the ridiculously handsome and quick-witted one, I’d say!” Gabriel retorted.

“Quick on the uptake aren’t you?”

“He’s looking for a new identity,” Raziel supplied.

Odin placed his hands on his hips, giving Gabriel and apprising glance. “Well, as it happens, we have an opening in my pantheon! We have need of a trickster.”

“A trickster?” asked Gabriel, his eyes opening wide. “Yeah, I could do that. I could definitely do that!”

Raziel was standing at Odin’s side. She was at least a foot shorter than he. “Odin, might I speak to you, my darling dearest?” Odin nodded genially at Gabriel, and followed Raziel a few paces away, out of earshot. “Odin, are you gonna tell him what happened to the last three or four Tricksters?”

Odin looked over at Gabriel, smiling and winking. “No,” he whispered to Raziel, his face frozen in a genial expression. “Absolutely not.”

Raziel blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Not a word.”

Raziel eyed Odin, and then her brother. She nodded and walked back towards Gabriel. “All right. You show up once a year at our Yule fest. And you promise not to argue with Michael over the dinner table.”

“Done and done,” said Gabriel.

Odin grinned and clapped Gabriel on the back, which nearly sent the short angel toppling over. “Welcome to the family, Gabe!” barked Odin. 

 

_The present day…._

“I don’t care, Cas. We are _not_ looping in your lunatic brother.”

“Dean, I know you have had your differences….”

“We’ve had differences? He threw you into a parallel universe that nearly killed you!”

“Well, he did always have an antic sense of humor.”

Dean glanced over at Cas, who was behind the wheel of the Impala. It had taken some doing, but Castiel had managed to convince Dean that he had consumed a bit too much wine during their sojourn in Sicily to be a steady hand at baby’s wheel. “Look, Cas-“

“Dean, I know you have your differences, but somehow, I trust Gabriel.”

“Like you trusted Metatron?”

Several different expressions made their way over Cas’s face. 

“OK, look, sorry,” Dean hedged. 

“We are approaching Baba Bubba's compound,” Cas announced.

“OK. All right, you got our story straight, like we rehearsed?”

Cas glanced down at his outfit. “We are not posing as FBI agents, as is your usual ruse?”

“No. For one thing, there hasn't been any crime. Well, that we know of. And for another, these guys are usually paranoid about federal agents.”

“But not local government?”

“No. And not nerd types. Like my dad used to say, you can get in pretty much anywhere with a lab coat and a clipboard! Just follow my lead.” As Cas set the parking brake, Dean popped out of the car and, straightening his own lab coat’s lapels, strode up to the gated mansion that was Baba Bubba's residence. Cas followed, trying to push down his reservations about this endeavor. To quote one of his new pop cultural references, he had a bad feeling about this. And it wasn't improved by Dean's current state of mild inebriation. He had actually never seen his friend quite like this. Dean consumed alcoholic beverages in a rate and quantity that was perhaps not propitious for his continued health. But this was different. For some reason, consumption of the red wine had made him extremely solicitous. It was weird.

Dean was now standing before the iron gate, waiting for Cas. He had donned a pair of steel-rimmed eyeglasses in addition to the white lab coat, and was squaring his shoulders in an attempt, Cas supposed, to look the part of a scientist-bureaucrat. Cas stood beside him, holding up his clipboard. Dean grinned, pulled another pair of eyeglasses out of a pocket, and set them on Cas's face. Cas blinked. “Gotta nerd you up, buddy,” said Dean, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. Slightly flustered, Cas attempted to get back into character as Dean pushed the call button and stared into the security camera up above, just after giving Cas a final wink.

“Inspectors for the city,” Dean announced. “You haven't filed your Form 1138-slash-THX for this business.”

There was no reply for a long moment. And then there was a buzzing sound, and the gate began to roll open. “See,” Dean whispered. “Told you this would be a snap. It's the lab coats.” He began walking up the driveway. 

Cas paused to watch the gate as it rolled away. The words “Enlightened Number of Celestial Harbingers,” were woven into the steel lattice. He followed Dean up towards the house, cringing when the gate shut behind them with a clang. 

The large doorway opened and Dean and Cas stepped inside.

Where they were immediately slammed into the wall by a rakshasa.

 

After assuring themselves that the spiders were not, indeed, present here, Sam and the pale clerk began to pull the cardboard carton marked “Horn of Gabriel” off of the shelf. Like the drawer on the card catalog, however, it just kept coming out and coming out, with no end in sight.

“Well, that's not surprising. The Horn’s design is asymptotic!” the clerk cheerily explained.

Sam searched his mind through long forgotten college classes. “Asymptotic,” he sighed. “It goes on for infinity?”

“And beyond” the clerk assured him. 

Sam looked glum. To have come so close! He wondered how they had packed it on the shelf to begin with, and then decided that he'd rather not know.

“Would you like me to go around to the other side and try giving it a push?” asked the clerk.

“Uh, how long will it take you to get to the other side of infinity?” Sam asked.

“These are Höltzmann shelves, so they're folded in on themselves,” the clerk explained. 

“Höltzmann?” asked Sam.

“Yes, a real bargain at IKEA!” The clerk was already proceeding down the aisle, intending to go around to the other side. Sam decided he had better follow, and they made their way around (past an end cap containing, oddly enough, Chia Pets shaped like a variety of physicists) and and then down (or up) to the other side where, indeed, there was a cardboard carton marked “Horn of Gabriel.”

Sam, who was taller than the clerk, reached up and gave it a pull, and, just like on the other side, the carton slid off and then just kept sliding and sliding. “Is there even anything in here?” Sam asked, hoisting it a bit. “It's really light.” 

“This end is only one molecule wide!” the clerk told him. “Let's try blowing into it. One of us can go back to the other side and see if it works.”

This all sounded dubious to Sam, but no more so than anything else that had happened that day. Taking his leave of the clerk, he walked back around to the other side of the shelf, grabbing an Albert Einstein Chia Pet as he passed by. He hefted it in his hand, marveling how the scientist's locks fluffed out. 

He set the small bust back up on the shelf, and took out his keys once again. “Let's see if there's a horn in here, huh, Albert?” he asked. He popped the tape on the side of the carton and pulled it open.

“Eureka!” said Sam. Indeed, there was the end of something that looked very much like a horn.

And then he fell to the floor, clutching his ears at the terrible shriek. There was the sound of shattering Chia, as Albert Einstein broke and fell down beside him.

Sam slowly removed his hands from his ears. The ends of his fingers were stained red with blood. The shattered remains of a Chia physicist lay around him.

“Hey, Sammy!” came a familiar voice.

 

Dean was used to getting punched. This didn't mean he liked it.

The rakshasa had flung both him and Cas across the room. But what's worse, it had torn his lab coat.

And the stupid thing had even bent his eyeglasses!

Dean glared across the room, where Cas was getting smacked again – hard. Dean knew the angel could usually take a beating too, but he wasn't too certain now that his mojo was all screwed up. But that didn't stop the stupid idiot from jumping in front of Dean and taking most of the fight on himself. Dean needed to get in there.

“Hey!” Dean bellowed, scrambling to his feet. “These are prescription! They don't come cheap!” he declared, waving the tangled glasses.

The demon, which was rounding on Cas, paused to glare, red-eyed, at Dean instead. Monsters hated sass! This gave Cas a moment more to get his footing, and another moment to grab a large bronze of the elephant god, Ganesha, and smash it down on the rakshasa's head. This stunned the beast enough that it dropped a couple of its swords. Cas grabbed one blade and slid another over to Dean. Gripping the sword two handed, Dean charged, hoping to make up with bluster what he lacked in technique, and adding a howl that he hoped would at least catch the demon's attention.

This worked all too well, as the demon charged back, swinging the two swords it still clutched. It swiftly had him backed up against the wall, blades at his neck. Fortunately, Cas had hopped onto a counter, run and jumped up on the demon's shoulders. It backed up, surprised, and Cas brought his sword down through its skull.

The demon stumbled and, just as Cas leapt off its back, toppled over, bringing down a display and probably many thousands of dollars of antiques as it fell.

“Damn,” said Dean, looking around at the broken furnishings. They had probably done more destruction this weekend that he had his whole career. It was pretty awesome! He noticed that Cas was shaking on his feet and went to put a steadying arm around the angel. “You OK, buddy?” he asked. 

Cas shook his head. There was blood trickling from the edge of his mouth. “Dean,” he rasped. “I think we should call my brother. I think-”

“Oh, what have you done! Look at my living room!” came a voice. A rotund man had come into the room.

He was followed by not one, but two rakshasas, who quickly got the drop on Dean and Cas. The chubby man knelt down by the monster they had just defeated. “Dammit, you weren't supposed to kill it! Idiots. These things don't just grow on trees, you know.”

“You got two more!” Dean snapped.

With some effort, the fat man stood up, his knees popping.

“Let me guess,” said Dean. “You're Baba Bubba.”

“Right,” he said. “And so, so wrong!” There was something familiar about him, but Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

“Dean,” said Cas.

“What?”

“That's Metatron.”

 

Sam stood up, not believing what he was seeing.

“Gabriel?”

The Trickster stood before him, grinning. “In the flesh. Now what's the big idea?”

“You're alive?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Looks that way, huh?” He glanced at the remains of Albert Einstein on the floor and snapped his fingers. The Einstein Chia appeared in his hand, intact again. “Why are you throwing physicists around, anywho?”

“I was supposed to get your horn.”

“Yeah, I heard. It summons me.”

Sam paused, trying to let his mind catch up. “Wait, the Horn of Gabriel summons you?”

“Well, yeah. Duh.”

“Isn't that … an awfully specific application?” Sam persisted. There had been too damn much weird today, and he wasn't in the best of moods after nearly getting his eardrums shattered.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. He set the Einstein Chia pet down on the shelf and pulled a small package of Raisinets out of his pocket and began popping them into his mouth. “Eh, it was just my old man tinkering. He was always coming up with weird stuff. Like the platypus! And you guys. By the way, speaking of weird stuff, how's my socially-impaired brother doing? He getting it on with your brother yet?”

“What?” asked Sam, although, to be honest, he knew damn well what Gabe was talking about.

“What's the matter, bleeding eardrums?” asked Gabriel. “Oh, sorry.” He snapped again, Sam's ears popped and, to be frank, he suddenly felt better.

“Uh, thanks,” Sam told him, whacking the side of his head as if he'd gotten water in an ear.

“Don't mention,” said Gabriel. He held up a hand, snapped again, and a cell phone appeared. “Sorry, gotta take this. It's probably just my dumb sister butt dialing me again.” He put the phone to his ear and nodded. “Hey. Cas? We were just talking about you, kimosabe. Hey! Cas? Cas!”

“Cas?” asked Sam.

Gabriel was looking at the phone. “Well, shit, it sounds like a real emergency. Wonder how the hell he got ahold of Raz's phone?”

“My brother's with Cas!” said Sam.

“All right, all right, we'll go check it out, don't get frantical,” Gabriel assured him, sticking out two fingers towards Sam's forehead.

“Excuse me.”

Gabe and Sam turned around. The pale clerk was standing there. “May I accompany you?” he asked.

“Uh, are you sure?” asked Sam.

“This spiders aren't here or there, they must be somewhere!” explained the clerk. Gabe looked at Sam, who shrugged.

“All right, paleface, let's get a move on,” said Gabe. He touched Sam and the pale clerk's foreheads, and, with a whisper of wings, they were off.

 

“No,” said Baba Bubba, who was actually Metatron, as the rakshasa ground Raziel's cell phone underneath his foot. “No calling for help this time!”

“My sister won't be pleased about this,” Cas sighed. Dean lurched towards him, but was held back by another rakshasa. Cas was on the ground, having just been knocked there by the bug-eyed demon. “She had a very good inter-dimensional plan.” He struggled to get up to his feet. The rakshasa grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up.

“Cas! Cas, are you OK, buddy?” asked Dean. 

“Don't worry, loverboy, I need to keep him alive for now.” Metatron grinned. “So I can end him, permanently. And no backsies this time!”

“You're making even less sense than usual, asshole,” Dean told him. “I thought they had you locked up!”

“You used the Tree, didn't you?” Cas asked Metatron.

“Yeah, I used a sprig from the Tree,” said Metatron, puffing up like the cat who'd got the canary. “Your equally bone-headed brother brought it to me.”

“What?” asked Dean.

“Gabriel,” said Cas. “Gabriel is alive. I saw him.”

“Wait! When was this?” asked Dean. “Didn't you think it might be worth mentioning?”

“Dean, can I point out that recently, you've been more involved in singing karaoke and stabbing various individuals than meddling in the affairs of Heaven?” Cas told him.

“OK. Point.”

“And I wasn't entirely sure whether he was one of Metatron's illusions.”

“Because I'm that good,” said Metatron, slapping his ample stomach in satisfaction. “But what's happening today is no illusion. While you pea-brains were stumbling blindly in the dark, I found him.”

“OK, I’m lost again. Found who?” asked Dean.

“Bring him in!” yelled Metatron. Two more rakshasas entered, escorting a small, blue-skinned, mustachioed man. His eyes were red as coals, and he was dressed in a red gown. His face, for some reason, reminded Dean somewhat of the demons. 

The blue man was carrying a stack of paperwork, and the demons accompanying him held some small cardboard boxes. 

“You found one third of the Blue Man Group. Good going,” said Dean.

“Yama,” said Cas.

“Yama?” asked Dean. “Like Rama Yama Ding-Dong?”

“He is the Hindu deity in charge of death.”

“Oh. There's more than one Death?”

“I had to search through all of the pantheons,” Metatron was saying, as Yama seated himself at a desk. “I knew it was being held up somewhere!”

“What was being held up?” asked Dean.

“Your death paperwork, of course!”

Dean looked at Cas, who nodded. “That makes sense.”

“ _What_ makes sense?”

“It’s all right, Dean,” said Metatron. “We know you’re as pretty as you are stupid.” Dean glowered. 

“It’s the reason I keep coming back,” Cas explained. “As I told you, Dean, death is very complicated. Interdepartmental. And all the time, I thought it had some meaning: a miracle. Or a punishment....”

“No, just a bureaucratic mix-up!” said Metatron. “The paperwork got lost on Yama's desk. The Fates snipped your threads, and Death even sent his Reapers after you, but the proper forms hadn't been stamped. Even after I killed you myself!” he noted, pointing at Dean.

“I have a question,” said Dean. 

Metatron stopped and stared at Dean.

“How did you get to be this big a douche? Did the big guy just have an off day when he made you?”

“You are going to die!” Metatron insisted, poking a finger at Dean. “And then you are going to die!” he said, pointing to Cas. “And then your idiot brother will die!”

“ _My_ idiot brother?” asked Cas. “Or Dean's?”

Metatron paused. “That's a good question, actually. Gabriel is a little, candy-snarfing twirp of an archangel. Put him on my list!” he yelled at the rakshasa, one of whom brought out a tiny notebook and scribbled down a name.

“But he brought you the Tree!” Dean argued. “You were working with him. You're gonna stab him in the back?”

“Archangels! If I just kill Gabriel, the world will finally be rid of them, for good.”

Dean and Cas exchanged a glance, but neither spoke. 

“Now!” said Metatron. “Do you have everything you need, Lord Yama?”

The blue god adjusted his eyeglasses and nodded as the rakshasas placed various stamps and staplers and post-it notes on his desk.

“You really gonna do this for him, Yama?” pleaded Dean. “Can't you see he's a douchebag?”

“He is rather,” agreed Yama, with a nod. “But this is my function. And according to these papers, you two are long overdue for death. By several years, as a matter of fact! And you, Mr. Winchester, are perhaps our greatest repeat offender,” he added, holding up a rather bulky sheaf of paper.

“Yeah, but a lot of that was Gabriel's fault,” said Dean.

“As I said,” huffed Metatron, “Archangels.”

Dean had to agree on that point.

“Now, I simply need to decide which one of you I loathe and despise more,” Metatron mused, glancing back and forth between Cas and Dean. “So I can kill the other one first, and watch you suffer.” And then he threw his head back and laughed.

“Good God, the bastard thinks he's a Bond villain,” Dean sighed.

“Dean,” said Cas quietly.

“What?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Cas-”

“Metatron,” said Cas. “Dean told me he thinks _Blade Runner_ is infinitely superior to the Philip Dick novel.”

“What?” bleated Metatron. “You Philistine!” he told Dean, shaking a finger in his face. He turned to Yama. “Kill Castiel. Now!”

“Cas!” Dean shouted. The blue god shuffled some paperwork, inked his stamp pad, and quietly stamped a paper.

Cas slumped to the floor, dead.

“Cas!” Dean shouted. “No!”

 

Sam turned around, doubled over and barfed. 

After a morning spent in some kind of multidimensional warehouse and an angel flight, his stomach just couldn't take it any more.

“You don't have any ginger chews, do you?” asked the pale clerk, who was standing beside Sam, carefully brushing back his hair so it didn't get in the way.

“Here ya go,” said Gabriel, tossing them over. 

The pale clerk unwrapped a candy and pressed it on Sam. “Good for the tummy,” he insisted.

“Where are we?” Sam croaked. They seemed to be in front of a big metal security gate bearing the logo, “Enlightened Number of Celestial Harbingers.” “Where's Dean?”

“I think they're inside,” who for once wasn't exuding his usual confidence.

“So why aren't _we_ inside?” asked Sam, steadying himself on the gate.

“There's warding up all over the place,” said Gabriel, knocking his fist against the gate. “Anti-archangel. I've never seen anything like it!”

“I wonder if...” Sam began. “But no, it couldn't be.” He felt his cell phone vibrate and pulled it out of his pocket. He scrolled through the messages, and found several from his brother, and several more from Hannah. “Oh, shit, I should tell Hannah where I am. Gimme a second?” He punched in a number.

“Metatron is out! Where are you?” came Hannah's frantic voice on the other end of the line.

“Oh, I'm, uh....” Sam trailed off. He put a hand over the phone. “Metatron has escaped. Where are we?”

“Duh, and San Claretian,” said Gabriel.

“Duh and San Claretian,” Sam told the phone. “Wait! Why, duh?”

“I got him the Tree of Life,” said Gabriel. “He was getting bored, sitting in Angel Jail all day.”

“He killed Dean!”

“What?”

“He killed Dean!” Sam repeated. 

“Wait, that's my job,” said Gabriel. “Oh, shit! That's probably why Cas was calling. Shit!”

“I can't see the spiders here,” reported the pale clerk. “I wonder where they've gone to?”

Sam let out a very deep, cleansing sigh and pulled the bitchface to end all bitchfaces. “We gotta get in there. Now!” he told Gabriel. 

“You got any ideas? Now's the time,” said Gabriel, kicking the gate. “Ouch!” he yelled when he stubbed his toe.

There was a whisper of wings. “Gabriel, darling!” Raziel, who was now wearing a brightly patterned scarf, grabbed Gabriel by the collar and gave him air kisses. “And darling Sam! Look at you, still so handsome,” she gushed, pulling him down and favoring him with kisses too.

“Uh, do I know you?” Sam asked.

“Raz!” said Gabriel.

“And look at this lovely pale man I have no idea about. How are _you_ , darling?” asked Raziel, giving the pale clerk air kisses as well.

“This is Raziel?” asked Sam. “The rogue archangel?”

“I'm hardly rogue,” cooed Raziel, whipping the scarf back around behind her. “I've just come from the most fabulous time with the Fates! You'll never guess-”

“Raz!” said Gabriel. “We think Metatron is in there!”

“In where? In there?” she asked, hitching a thumb towards the mansion.

“He's got my brother!” said Sam. “And Cas!”

“But it's archangel-proofed!” said Gabriel. “I can't get past all this warding.”

Raziel crossed her arms. “Well. Metatron? That little shit tried to ward against me?” She adjusted her scarf and glared at the gate in a scandalized manner.

 

“Cas.” 

Dean was on the floor, Castiel's body cradled in his arms. “Cas. No,” he repeated, rocking back and forth.

“Is he dead?” asked Yama, adjusting his glasses.

“What do you think?” Dean barked.

“I only file paperwork!” Yama protested.

“Well, go ahead and stamp mine now, asshole,” Dean told him, his eyes brimming. “Cas,” he whispered, pressing his face into the angel's dark hair. “Dammit, Cas. Don't leave me. Not now.”

“He's already gone,” said Metatron triumphantly. “And this time, gone for good!”

“Why would you do this?” asked Dean.

“Isn't it obvious? I'm the villain of the piece! If that is what I am to be, then this is what I'm going to do.”

“You're not a villain. You're a piece of crap!”

Metatron shook his head indulgently at Dean. “Oh, yes, please give me your 'literary' opinion, Dean. And I, by the way, am an excellent villain!”

“No. You suck!”

“The shining eloquence! Tell me, what have you read, Dean, that doesn't involve coloring inside the lines?”

“And what have you read that you've actually understood?”

Metatron was silent. 

“You remember Lucifer?” Dean continued. “He sucked too. He sucked, but I could at least understand the guy. I know family shit. I knew why he did what he did. You? You're just a piece of shit!”

“My motivations aren't clear?” asked Metatron, who frowned. He pretended to wipe a speck off his sleeve. “I mean, that's nonsense. Of course.”

“No. You're pissed about the archangels, but you don't try to make anything right. You're just as much of a douche as they were.”

“I am _nothing_ like the archangels!”

“Someone call for an archangel?” came a familiar voice. There was the whisper of wings, and suddenly, four people appeared in the room. Two were very short, one was very pale, and one was-

“Sam!” shouted Dean. “It's Metatron. Baba Bubba is Metatron!”

“What's a Baba Bubba?” asked Sam.

Gabriel and Raziel both pulled out swords and made rather quick work of the rakshasas, which all toppled over like so many bowling pins. Yama remained seated at his desk, holding up his hands in surrender as Gabriel held a sword at his neck. “You killed Dean!” Gabriel yelled.

“No, I killed Castiel,” Yama replied, holding up the relevant paperwork.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Metatron demanded. “I specifically warded against archangels!”

“I'm an ex-scribe of god, you douche!” Raziel yelled back, wiping rakshasa blood from her sword off on the demon’s slacks.

“But you're a complete bubblehead!” Metatron retorted.

Raziel stood to her full height, which wasn't terribly tall, though she was wearing heels. “That might be, but I've just foiled your plans.”

“You're too late!” snickered Metatron.

“Cas is dead?” Sam whispered to Dean, who was still down on the floor, cradling the still angel.

“He killed Cas,” said Dean. “He stamped the paperwork.” Sam crouched down, a hand on his stricken brother's back.

“Don't worry,” said Raziel. “I just made a deal with the Fates. They've been supplying their artisinal fabric to the Entity label, and as it happens, they took a liking to this weave!” She peeled off her scarf, and pointed a well-manicured nail towards the bright pattern.

“What are you talking about, you ditz?” asked Metatron.

“It's called the Profound Bond weave!”

There was a gasp. Cas suddenly sat bolt upright.

“Cas?” asked Dean.

“See the intricacy of the pattern?” Raziel asked Yama. She was leaning over his desk, and he nodded. “That's the lives of Dean and Castiel, woven together!”

“But he's dead!” Yama said, pointing at Cas. “I just filed the paperwork!”

“The sisters wove his thread back together!” said Raziel. “We can't have it cut now when those two are going to be the look of the season!”

“Well, I'll be,” said Yama. 

“Enough,” said Metatron. “I don't like this ending at all! It's silly and sentimental. As well as preposterous. I'm going to go to re-write! Guards!”

Quite suddenly the large room got quite crowded. There were not only rakshasas this time, but several angels surrounding Dean, Sam, Cas, Raziel and Gabriel.

“Can't you people at least learn to fit a suit!” Raziel cried.

Several of the angels looked down at their apparel.

“Raz!” said Gabriel. “Eyes on the prize, sis. We're kind of in a situation here.”

“Oh, I suppose so.” Raziel set her sunglasses atop her head and set her sword aflame. “Gabriel and I will deal with the angels. Others take the demons.” 

“Dammit!” said Dean. “Up!” he urged Cas, who was already holding his angel blade. 

“Raziel! No killing!” yelled Cas, his deep voice gone scratchy.

“What?” asked Gabriel. He turned and punched an angel in the nose. The angel fell. 

Raziel was holding another angel by the scruff of his neck. “But I wanna stab something!” she pleaded. “I got the flaming sword and everything!”

“No!” Cas ordered. “No more killing our brothers and sisters!”

Raziel and Gabriel exchanged an annoyed glance. “All right, all right,” muttered Raziel.

“Pacifist,” sighed Gabriel, who whacked another angel with the hilt of his sword.

Dean clobbered a demon with one of Baba Bubba's priceless work of art. “You stay back, I'm fighting,” he yelled at Cas.

“No,” said Cas. “ _You_ stay back!”

Raziel and Gabriel continued knocking angel heads together while Dean and Cas argued. Meanwhile, Yama had crawled under his desk to cower. Metatron had fled the room.

And the pale clerk was nowhere to be seen.

“Idiots,” muttered Sam as he pulled a weapon from his waistband and got off a few shots at the demons. “Dean, what the hell is going on? I've had a really weird afternoon!”

Dean shoved Cas out of the way, and then Cas shoved back, and then somehow they both ended up clobbering a demon. “That blue dude over there is some Hindu death god bureaucrat-”

“Yama!” Cas supplied as he stabbed the monster. 

“-and these are his fugly demon things, I guess.”

“Rakshasas,” said Cas.

“Gesundheit!” retorted Dean. They glared at each other, and then both cracked grins and went back to fighting.

Sam ducked a demon and then peeked under the desk. “Hey, if you're a demon prince, why are you hiding from your own guys?” he asked Yama.

“I'm just a bureaucrat!” Yama protested.

Sam reached under the desk and yanked Yama by his tie. “Call them off,” he ordered Yama.

“I don't think they'll listen to me.”

“Call them off!” Sam yelled. He dragged Yama up and forced him to stand on the top of his desk.

“Stop?” said Yama.

“Louder!”

“Stop!” Yama shouted.

Suddenly, the rakshasas all paused. Dean and Cas exchanged a glance.

“Um, stop fighting?” said Yama.

The demons – the ones that were left alive anyway – shrugged and began to check their watches. 

“We took care of the angels,” Gabriel announced. “All alive,” he added, glaring at Cas.

“Well, mostly!” said Raziel cheerily.

“Where's Metatron?” asked Dean.

“Escaped! Dammit!” said Gabriel.

“No. He hasn't!” 

It was the pale clerk. He was leaning in the doorway, pointing at something in the next room. Everyone gathered around, craning their necks to see.

“And,” said the clerk, “I've finally found where the spiders got to!”

Everyone peered into the darkness.

“Ew,” said Gabriel. 

 

They had had to push two tables together, but no one complained. 

After all, there was pizza.

Also, it wasn't often that you had two archangels dining together. Gabe had added some dancing girls, so Raziel countered with some dancing boys. As angelic rivalries go, it was all pretty mild. 

“So, you did the lab coat thing?” Dean asked Sam as he grabbed another slice of _funghi_. Dean had learned that meant mushrooms, not something gross. 

“Yeah, I did the lab coat thing,” said Sam, smiling down on his now somewhat rumpled lab coat.

“It’ll get you in anywhere!” Dean told Cas as he draped an affectionate arm around the back of Cas’s chair. “Anywhere!” He stared at the angel. Cas stared back. 

Sam rolled his eyes and helped himself to another slice.

Raziel and Pahaliah had surrounded Hannah. “You really need to get it up out of your eyes!” Raziel was fussing as Pahalia put a clip in Hannah’s hair. “Such lovely eyes.” 

“I have more important issues to deal with,” Hannah sighed. 

“Yama says he can help process the souls in the veil, can’t you Yama?” asked Raziel. The blue god, sitting across the table, nodded enthusiastically. “And the Three Fates can resume trimming the threads, now that Atropos has her scissors back.”

“I need to make certain Metatron doesn’t escape again!” Hannah fussed.

“Well, we’ve taken away the section of the Tree of Life he was using, and we’re going to put it back into the Tree. Aren’t we,” said Raziel. “Ahem, I said, aren’t we?”

Gabriel looked up from where he and the pale clerk were playing with a spider. “Uh, yeah,” said Gabriel distractedly. Suddenly, a raven alit on his shoulder and snatched the spider from his hands. “Hey!”

“My ravens tell me my husband is going to be on the Wild Hunt for at least another day or so,” Raziel told him as the raven landed on her shoulder. She put out a hand, and the raven deposited the spider there. Raziel tossed the spider into the air, and suddenly, a tall, dark-skinned man materialized there.

“Hey, Raziel,” he said. “Hey, Gabe!”

“Hello, Anansi,” said Raziel, while Gabriel frowned. “Just remember,” she told her brother, “there are an awful lot of people out there who could do your job.” She turned back to Anansi. “Would you care for some pizza?”

“Of course,” said the god, taking a seat beside her. “Pizza is awesome!”


	5. Chapter 5

_Epilogue_

“Now, just relax,” said Jim Carbyne.

“I've never done anything like this,” Hannah confessed. 

“You'll be great!” said Jim, rubbing his hands together as Hannah made her way out of the screened dressing area. “Oh, my dear!” he cooed as a small group of women surrounded her, fussing with her hair and retouching her makeup. She was dressed head to toe in Entity's new line, featuring many Profound Bond prints.

“You'll knock 'em dead, angelcakes,” said Patsy Stone, taking another sip of her vodka martini as people around the crowded backstage area rushed here and there. 

“I'm not entirely sure I can walk in these heels,” Hannah confessed.

“Give her a hand, boys!” said Patsy.

Suddenly, two of Patsy's most gorgeous personal assistants strode out and each offered an elbow to Hannah. She took them, and nodding to Jim and Patsy, and as the disco music thrummed, made her way out to the runway.

 

High above the earth, two archangels sat in a rather unusually vast tree.

“How long did you say until the Big O comes back from his wild hunt?” asked Gabriel nervously.

“I think a day or so. Hopefully this will have had some time to grow back,” said Raziel, carefully pulling out the sprig from the Tree of Life and handing it over to her brother.

“Huh. How long do you think this'll take to repair itself?”

“No idea,” said Raziel, swinging her legs. “Do I look like a gardener to you?”

“You look like you spend too damn much time getting your nails painted.” Gabriel took the small sprout from its pot, carefully shook the dirt from its roots, and placed it on the bare spot on the branch beside him.

There was a hum, and with a small spray of sparks, the twig united with the tree, instantly repairing itself.

“Wow!” said Gabriel. “Pagan magic is the shit.”

“You're lucky. Did he ever tell you what happened with the last thee or four Tricksters?”

Gabriel shook his head. “So, you think he'll know?”

“To be honest? Yes.”

Gabriel nodded glumly. “Yeah, I think so too.” They sat for a while in silence. “What do you think he'll do?”

“Well,” said Raziel, “he has been saying of late it would be nice to have a brother or sister for Sleipnir!”

Gabriel frowned at her. “No way.”

But Raziel only grinned and swung her legs.

 

“We've got it.”

Metatron turned from where he was sitting in the corner, moping, in his cell. His face was swollen up with many, many angry-looking red welts. “You've got what?” He reached up and pulled some cobwebs from his hair. “Some calamine lotion? These bites are itching like crazy!”

“The poem,” said Pahaliah. She grinned at Barachiel, who was holding a pile of scrolls, which he placed upon a podium just outside the cell.

Metatron came forward in his cell. He looked at the scrolls in wonder. “Sappho's poetry?”

“The complete works, in fact! It turned out Raziel's husband had a copy in his personal library.”

“Sappho's poetry,” said Metatron. “I never thought...” He reached a hand between the bars.

“Nope, nope!” said Pahaliah. “Even better news! We've brought in a special guest to read them to you.”

“I don't understand. I don't need to be read to!” said Metatron.

Barachiel departed, and came back in a while, escorting an ancient, ancient man. 

“Who is this? Is this a poet?” asked Metatron.

“Actually, up until a few days ago, he worked at the Vault of Embargoed Relics, Blessed Objects and Tenebrous and Egregious Notions.”

“He- Oh!” The color drained from Metatron's face. “Oh no! No! Wait!”

Pahaliah and Barachiel departed, and the clerk from the Vault of Embargoed Relics, Blessed Objects and Tenebrous and Egregious Notions took out his reading glasses. He donned the eyeglasses, and then set to unrolling the first scroll. He unrolled it partway and smoothed it out. He cleared his throat. 

The scroll rolled back.

He took off his eyeglasses, pocketed them, and unrolled the scroll again. He took out his eyeglasses and the scroll rolled up.

“Dammit,” whispered Metatron.

The clerk, recently of the Vault, fixed him with a vicious stare.

Metatron mimed zipping his lips and gripped the bars of his cell, looking hungrily to the clerk. The clerk unrolled the scroll yet again. He licked his lips. He cleared his throat. He dipped into his pocket for a lozenge.

The scroll rolled back up again.

The clerk rolled the lozenge around in his mouth. He unrolled the scroll yet again, smoothing it out. He adjusted his reading glasses, and this time the scroll fell all the way off of the podium.

Metatron's knuckles were white, gripping the bars.

The ancient man bent down, his knees popping in protest. He retrieved the scroll, and, slowly and laboriously brought it back up to the podium.

He breathed in.

“In … your … chariot-”

“Look at the time!” said Pahaliah, who had just buzzed in. “Time for your coffee break!” She ushered out the ancient man, while Barachiel gathered up all of the scrolls – every single one – and bustled out, leaving Metatron there, alone, gripping the bars of his cage. 

 

“Do these stakeouts often last a long time?” asked Cas.

“You're the one who wanted to be a hunter,” said Dean, but he was smiling warmly. He leaned back against the brick wall. They were on a side street, keeping careful watch on a house down the block that was said to house a nest of vampires. Or maybe it was just a bunch of goth kids. You never could be too sure about these things..

Cas gripped his paper cup of coffee and shrugged. 

Dean leaned in closer. “Hey, in case I didn't say it before, I'm really glad you didn't check out on us back there.”

“Actually, you have said it before. Thank you, Dean. I hope to be worthy of your belief in me.”

“Cas, you're plenty worthy! Come on. It's not angel powers or magical horns or anything. You're enough. Just you. OK?”

Cas nodded into his coffee.

“Now, enough of this touchy-feely crap,” Dean instructed. He fished into his pocket and took out his cell phone. “Text from Sammy. They're on the move. Oh, coming this way.” He pocketed the phone and leaned out to glance at the street. The sound of footsteps and soft voices began to approach. Dean's eyes grew big.

Suddenly, Dean lunged forward. He pressed Cas to the wall.

And kissed him.

A group of black-clad individuals passed by just at that moment. A couple of them glanced over at the two men making out, and then quickly glanced away, walking on.

Dean drew back, still pressing Cas against the wall. “Public displays of affection,” said Dean. “I've heard it makes people nervous.”

“Goth kids?” asked Cas.

“Think so.”

They remained where they were, staring into one another's eyes.

 

Three chairs were set in a semicircle around the fireplace. 

The fire crackled, and sent a soft glow through the room.

Three women sat around the fire. The first sat before a lab bench, where she was carefully dissolving pulp with aqueous sodium hydroxide and carbon disulfide to create a solution of cellulose xanthate.

The second woman sat with her laptop open, a Skype window open. “So I said to them, I said, this pattern is sure to be important next season.”

A door opened somewhere, and the oldest sister entered. “One chestnut latte, and one chai.”

“Thank you, sister,” said the youngest.

The middle sister turned her laptop around so the screen was visible. “Come sisters. Look at this!”

The oldest sister adjusted her glasses. “Is this the Profound Bond fabric?”

“It has a new pattern.”

“Always a new pattern.”

In the soft firelight, the three women gathered around the computer screen and softly smiled.


End file.
